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B    3    117 


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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

Landscape  Architecture 
GIFT  OF 

Frederick  Law  Olms ted 
the  Younger 


FROM  THE  COLLECTION  OF 

F.  L.  OLMSTFDJR. 
LOWTHORPE  SCHOOL 


A  WEEK 


ON 


CONCORD  AND  MERRIMACK  RIVEBS. 


A    WEEK    ON    THE    CONCORD 
AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS 


BY 


HENRY   D.  THOREAU 

AUTHOR   OF   "  WALDEN,"   ETC. 


BOSTON    AND   NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 


1892 


LANDSCAPT 
ARCHITECTURE 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1867,  by 

TICKNOR    AND     FIELDS, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


Add'l 


\ 

'v*^ 


C5T5 


LANDSCAPE 
ARCH. 

LIBRARY 


Where'er  thou  sail'st  who  sailed  with  me, 
Though  now  thou  climbest  loftier  mounts, 
And  fairer  rivers  dost  ascend, 
Be  thou  my  Muse,  my  Brother—. 


I  am  bound,  I  am  bound,  for  a  distant  shore. 
By  a  lonely  isle,  by  a  far  Azore, 
There  it  is,  there  it  is,  the  treasure  I  seek. 
On  the  barren  sands  of  a  desolate  creek. 


I  sailed  up  a  river  with  a  pleasant  wind, 
New  lands,  new  people,  and  new  thoughts  to  find j 
Many  fair  reaches  and  headlands  appeared, 
And  many  dangers  were  there  to  be  feared ; 
But  when  I  remember  where  I  have  been, 
And  the  fair  landscapes  that  I  have  seen, 
THOU  seemest  the  only  permanent  shore, 
The  cape  never  rounded,  nor  wandered  o'«r. 


Fluminaque  obliquis  cinxit  declivia  ripis ; 
Quae.  diversa  locis,  partim  sorbentur  ab  ipsa ; 
In  mare  perveniunt  partim,  campoque  recepta 
Liberioris  aquae,  pro  ripis  litora  pulsant 

OVID,  Met  I.  39^ 

He  confined  the  rivers  within  their  sloping  banks, 
Which  in  different  places  are  part  absorbed  by  the  earth. 
Part  reach  the  sea,  and  being  received  within  the  plain 
Of  its  freer  waters,  beat  the  shore  for  banks. 


CONCORD    RIVER. 


«  Beneath  low  hills,  in  the  broad  interval 
Through  which  at  will  our  Indian  rivulet 
Winds  mindful  still  of  sannup  and  of  squaw, 
Whose  pipe  and  arrow  oft  the  plough  unburiea, 
Here,  in  pine  houses,  built  of  new-fallen  trees, 
Supplanters  of  the  tribe,  the  farmers  dwell." 

SMEBSOH. 

THE  MUSKETAQUID,  or  Grass-ground  River,  though 
probably  as  old  as  the  Nile  or  Euphrates,  did  not  be 
gin  to  have  a  place  in  civilized  history,  until  the  fame  of 
its  grassy  meadows  and  its  fish  attracted  settlers  out 
of  England  in  1635,  when  it  received  the  other  but 
kindred  name  of  CONCORD  from  the  first  plantation 
on  its  banks,  which  appears  to  have  been  commenced 
in  a  spirit  of  peace  and  harmony.  It  will  be  Grass- 
ground  River  as  long  as  grass  grows  and  water  runs 
here ;  it  will  be  Concord  River  only  while  men  lead 
peaceable  lives  on  its  banks.  To  an  extinct  race  it 
was  grass-ground,  where  they  hunted  and  fished,  and 
it  is  still  perennial  grass-ground  to  Concord  farmers, 
who  own  the  Great  Meadows,  and  get  the  hay  from 
year  to  year.  "One  branch  of  it,"  according  to  the 
historian  of  Concord,  for  I  love  to  quote  so  good  au 
thority,  "rises  in  the  south  part  of  Hopkinton,  and 
another  from  a  pond  and  a  large  cedar-swamp  in 
Westborough,"  and  flowing  between  Hopkinton  and 
Southborough,  through  Framingham,  and  between  Sud- 


10  CONCOKD    RIVER. 

bury  and  Wayland,  where  it  is  sometimes  called  Sud- 
bury  River,  it  enters  Concord  at  the  south  part  of 
the  town,  and  after  receiving  the  North  or  Assabetli 
River,  which  has  its  source  a  little  farther  to  the  north 
and  west,  goes  out  at  the  northeast  angle,  and  flow 
ing  between  Bedford  and  Carlisle,  and  through  Billerica, 
empties  into  the  Merriraack  at  Lowell.  In  Concord 
it  is,  in  summer,  from  four  to  fifteen  feet  deep,  and 
from  one  hundred  to  three  hundred  feet  wide,  but  in 
the  spring  freshets,  when  it  overflows  its  banks,  it  is 
in  some  places  nearly  a  mile  wide.  Between  Sudbury 
and  Wayland  the  meadows  acquire  their  greatest 
breadth,  and  when  covered  with  water,  they  form  a 
handsome  chain  of  shallow  vernal  lakes,  resorted  to 
by  numerous  ^ulls  and  ducks.  Just  above  Sherman's 
Bridge,  between  these  towns,  is  the  largest  expanse, 
and  when  the  wind  blows  freshly  in  a  raw  March 
lay,  heaving  up  the  surface  into  dark  and  sober  bil 
lows  or  regular  swells,  skirted  as  it  is  in  the  distance 
with  alder-swamps  and  smoke-like  maples,  it  looks 
like  a  smaller  Lake  Huron,  and  is  very  pleasant  and 
exciting  for  a  landsman  to  row  or  sail  over.  The 
farm-houses  along  the  Sudbury  shore,  which  rises 
gently  to  a  considerable  height,  command  fine  water 
prospects  at  this  season.  The  shore  is  more  flat  on 
the  Wayland  side,  and  this  town  is  the  greatest  loser 
by  the  flood.  Its  farmers  tell  me  that  thousands  of 
acres  are  flooded  now,  since  the  dams  have  been 
erected,  where  they  remember  to  have  seen  the 
white  honeysuckle  or  clover  growing  once,  and  they 
could  go  dry  with  shoes  only  in  summer.  Now  there 
is  nothing  but  blue-joint  and  sedge  and  cut-grass  there, 
standing  in  water  all  the  year  round.  For  a  long 


CONCORD    RIVER.  11 

time,  they  'made  the  most  of  the  driest  season  to  got 
their  hay,  working  sometimes  till  nine  o'clock  at  night, 
sedulously  paring  with  their  scythes  in  the  twilight 
round  the  hummocks  left  by  the  ice;  but  now  it  is 
not  worth  the  getting  when  they  can  come  at  it,  and 
they  look  sadly  round  to  their  wood-lots  and  upland 
as  a  last  resource. 

It  is  worth  the  while  to  make  a  voyage  up  this  stream, 
if  you  go  no  farther  than  Sudbury,  only  to  see  how 
much  country  there  is  in  the  rear  of  us  ;  great  hills, 
and  a  hundred  brooks,  and  farm-houses,  and  barns,  and 
haystacks,  you  never  saw  before,  and  men  everywhere, 
Sudbury,  that  is  Southborough  men,  and  Wayland,  and 
Nine- Acre- Corner  men,  and  Bound  Rock,  where  four 
towns  bound  on  a  rock  in  the  river,  Lincoln,  Wayland, 
Sudbury,  Concord.  Many  waves  are  there  agitated  by 
the  wind,  keeping  nature  fresh,  the  spray  blowing  in 
your  face,  reeds  and  rushes  waving ;  ducks  by  the 
hundred,  all  uneasy  in  the  surf,  in  the  raw  wind,  just 
ready  to  rise,  and  now  going  off  with  a  clatter  and  a 
whistling  like  riggers  straight  for  Labrador,  flying 
against  the  stiff  gale  with  reefed  wings,  or  else  circling 
round  first,  with  all  their  paddles  briskly  moving,  just 
over  the  surf,  to  reconnoitre  you  before  they  leave  these 
parts ;  gulls  wheeling  overhead,  muskrats  swimming  for 
dear  life,  wet  and  cold,  with  no  fire  to  warm  them  by 
that  you  know  of;  their  labored  homes  rising  here  and 
there  like  haystacks;  and  countless  mice  and  moles 
and  winged  titmice  along  the  sunny  windy  shore ;  cran 
berries  tossed  on  the  waves  and  heaving  up  on  the 
beach,  their  little  red  skiffs  beating  about  among  the 
alders ;  —  such  healthy  natural  tumult  as  proves  the 
\ast  day  is  not  yet  at  hand.  And  there  stand  aV 


12  CONCOUD    RIVER. 

around  the  aiders,  and  birches,  and  oaks,  and  maples 
full  of  glee  and  sap,  holding  in  their  buds  until  the 
waters  subside.  You  shall  perhaps  run  aground  on 
Cranberry  Island,  only  some  spires  of  last  year's  pipe- 
grass  above  water,  to  show  where  the  danger  is,  and 
get  as  good  a  freezing  there  as  anywhere  on  the 
Northwest  Coast.  I  never  voyaged  so  far  in  all  my 
life.  You  shall  see  men  you  never  heard  of  before, 
whose  names  you  don't  know,  going  away  down  through 
the  meadows  with  long  ducking-guns,  with  water-tight 
boots  wading  through  the  fowl -meadow  grass,  on  bleak, 
wintry,  distant  shores,  with  guns  at  half-cocK,  and  they 
shall  see  teal,  blue-winged,  green-winged,  shelldrakes, 
whistlers,  black  ducks,  ospreys,  and  many  other  wild  and 
noble  sights  before  night,  sucli  as  they  who  sit  in  parlors 
never  dream  of.  You  shall  see  rude  and  sturdy,  expe 
rienced  and  wise  men,  keeping  their  castles,  or  teaming 
up  their  summer's  wood,  or  chopping  alone  in  the  woods, 
men  fuller  of  talk  and  rare  adventure  in  the  sun  and 
wind  and  rain,  than  a  chestnut  is  of  meat ;  who  were  out 
not  only  in  '75  and  1812,  but  have  been  out  every  day  of 
their  lives;  greater  men  than  Homer,  or  Chaucer,  or 
Shakespeare,  only  they  never  got  time  to  say  so ;  they 
never  took  to  the  way  of  writing.  Look  at  their  fields, 
and  imagine  what  they  might  write,  if  ever  they  should  put 
pen  to  paper.  Or  what  have  they  not  written  on  the  face 
of  the  earth  already,  clearing,  and  burning,  and  scratch 
ing,  and  harrowing,  and  ploughing,  and  subsoiling,  in  and 
n,  and  out  and  out,  and  over  and  over,  again  and  again, 
erasing  what  they  had  already  written  for  want  of 
k  archment. 

As  yesterday  and  the  historical  ages  are  past,  as  the 
work  of  to-day  is  present,  so  some  flitting  perspectives. 


CONCORD    RIVER.  13 

»nd  demi-experiences  of  the  life  that  is  in  nature  are  in 
time  veritably  future,  or  rather  outside  to  time,  peren 
nial,  young,  divine,  in  the  wind  and  rain  which  never 
die. 

The  respectable  folks,  — 

Where  dwel]  they? 

They  whisper  in  the  oaks, 

And  they  sigh  in  the  hay; 

Summer  and  winter,  night  and  day, 

Out  on  the  meadow,  there  dwell  they. 

They  never  die, 

Nor  snivel,  nor  cry, 

Nor  ask  our  pity 

With  a  wet  eye. 

A  sound  estate  they  ever  mend 

To  every  asker  readily  lend; 

To  the  ocean  wealth, 

To  the  meadow  health, 

To  Time  his  length, 

To  the  rocks  strength, 

To  the  stars  light, 

To  the  weary  night, 

To  the  busy  day, 

To  the  idle  play  ; 

And  so  their  good  cheer  never  ends, 

For  all  are  their  debtors,  and  all  their  friends. 

Concord  River  is  remarkable  for  the  gentleness  of  its 
current,  which  is  scarcely  perceptible,  and  some  have  re 
ferred  to  its  influence  the  proverbial  moderation  of  the 
inhabitants  of  Concord,  as  exhibited  in  the  Revolution, 
<nd  on  later  occasions.  It  has  been  proposed,  that  the 
town  should  adopt  for  its  coat  of  arms  a  field  verdant,  with 
ne  Concord  circling  nine  times  round.  I  have  read  that 
a  descent  of  an  eighth  of  an  inch  in  a  mile  is  sufficient  to 
produce  a  flow.  Our  river  has,  probably,  very  near  the 
imallest  allowance.  The  story  is  current,  at  any  rate 
though  I  believe  that  strict  history  will  not  bear  it  out 


14  CONCORD    RIVER. 

that  the  only  bridge  ever  carried  away  on  the  oam 
branch,  within  the  limits  of  the  town,  was  driven  up 
stream  by  the  wind.  But  wherever  it  makes  a  sudden 
bend  it  is  shallower  and  swifter,  and  asserts  its  title  to  be 
called  a  river.  Compared  with  the  other  tributaries  of 
the  Merrimack,  it  appears  to  have  been  properly  named 
Musketaquid,  or  Meadow  River,  by  the  Indians.  For 
the  most  part,  it  creeps  through  broad  meadows,  adorned 
with  scattered  oaks,  where  the  cranberry  is  found  in 
abundance,  covering  the  ground  like  a  moss-bed.  A 
row  of  Sunken  dwarf  willows  borders  the  stream  on  one 
or  both  sides,  while  at  a  greater  distance  the  meadow  is 
skirted  with  maples,  alders,  and  other  fluviatile  trees, 
overrun  with  the  grape-vine,  which  bears  fruit  in  its 
season,  purple,  red,  white,  and  other  grapes.  Still  far 
ther  from  the  stream,  on  the  edge  of  the  firm  land,  are 
seen  the  gray  and  white  dwellings  of  the  inhabitants. 
According  to  the  valuation  of  1831,  there  were  in  Con 
cord  two  thousand  one  hundred  and  eleven  acres,  or 
about  one  seventh  of  the  whole  territory  in  meadow ; 
this  standing  next  in  the  list  after  pasturage  and  unim 
proved  lands,  and,  judging  from  the  returns  of  previous 
years,  the  meadow  is  not  reclaimed  so  fast  as  the  woods 
are  cleared. 

Let  us  here  read  what  old  Johnson  says  of  these 
meadows  in  his  "  Wonder-working  Providence,"  which 
gives  the  account  of  New  England  from  1628  to  1652, 
and  see  how  matters  looked  to  him.  He  says  of  the 
Twelfth  Church  of  Christ  gathered  at  Concord  :  "  This 
town  is  seated  upon  a  fair  fresh  river,  whose  rivulets  are 
filled  with  fresh  marsh,  and  her  streams  with  fish,  it  be 
ing  a  branch  of  that  large  river  of  Merrimack.  All- 
rrifes  and  shad  in  their  season  come  up  to  this  town,  bu' 


CONCORD    RIVER*  15 

lalmon  and  dace  cannot  come  up,  by  reason  of  the  rocky 
falls,  which  causeth  their  meadows  to  lie  much  covered 
with  water,  the  which  these  people,  together  with  their 
neighbor  town,  have  several  times  essayed  to  cut  through 
but  cannot,  yet  it  may  be  turned  another  way  with  an 
hundred  pound  charge  as  it  appeared."  As  to  their 
farming  he  says :  "  Having  laid  out  their  estate  upon 
cattle  at  5  to  20  pound  a  cow,  when  they  came  to  winter 
them  with  inland  hay,  and  feed  upon  such  wild  fother 
as  was  never  cut  before,  they  could  not  hold  out  the 
winter,  but,  ordinarily  the  first  or  second  year  after 
their  coming  up  to  a  new  plantation,  many  of  their  cat- 
'le  died."  And  this  from  the  same  author  "  Of  the 
Planting  of  the  19th  Church  in  the  Mattachusets'  Gov 
ernment,  called  Sudbury  "  :  "  This  year  [does  he  mean 
1654]  the  town  and  church  of  Christ  at  Sudbury  began 
to  have  the  first  foundation  stones  laid,  taking  up  her 
station  in  the  inland  country,  as  her  elder  sister  Concord 
had  formerly  done,  lying  further  up  the  same  river, 
being  furnished  with  great  plenty  of  fresh  marsh,  but, 
it  lying  very  low  is  much  indamaged  with  land  floods, 
insomuch  that  when  the  summer  proves  wet  they  lose 
part  of  their  hay  ;  yet  are  they  so  sufficiently  provided 
that  they  take  in  cattle  of  other  towns  to  winter." 

The  sluggish  artery  of  the  Concord  meadows  steals 
thus  unobserved  through  the  town,  without  a  murmur 
or  a  pulse-beat,  its  general  course  from  southwest  to 
northeast,  and  its  length  about  fifty  miles  ;  a  huge  vol 
ume  of  matter,  ceaselessly  rolling  through  the  plains 
and  valleys  of  the  substantial  earth  with  the  moccasoned 
tread  of  an  Indian  warrior,  making  haste  from  the  high 
places  of  the  earth  to  its  ancient  reservoir.  The  mur 
murs  of  many  a  famous  river  on  the  other  side  of  the 


16  CONCORD    RIVER. 

globe  reach  even  to  us  here,  as  to  more  distant  dwell 
ers  on  its  banks  ;  many  a  poet's  stream  floating  the 
helms  and  shields  of  heroes  on  its  bosom.  The  Xanthus 
or  Scamander  is  not  a  mere  dry  channel  and  bed  of  a 
mountain  torrent,  but  fed  by  the  overflowing  springs  of 
fame ;  — 

"  And  thou  Simois,  that  as  an  arrowe,  clere 
Through  Troy  rennest,  aie  downward  to  the  sea";  — 

and  I  trust  that  I  may  be  allowed  to  associate  our  muddy 
but  much  abused  Concord  River  with  the  most  famous 
in  history. 

"  Sure  there  are  poets  which  did  never  dream 
Upon  Parnassus,  nor  did  taste  the  stream 
Of  Helicon ;  we  therefore  may  suppose 
Those  made  not  poets,  but  the  poets  those." 

The  Mississippi,  the  Ganges,  and  the  Nile,  those  jour 
neying  atoms  from  the  Rocky  Mountains,  the  Himmaleh, 
and  Mountains  of  the  Moon,  have  a  kind  of  personal 
importance  in  the  annals  of  the  world.  The  heavens 
are  not  yet  drained  over  their  sources,  but  the  Moun 
tains  of  the  Moon  still  send  their  annual  tribute  to  the 
Pasha  without  fail,  as  they  did  to  the  Pharaohs,  though 
he  must  collect  the  rest  of  his  revenue  at  the  point  of 
the  sword.  Rivers  must  have  been  the  guides  which 
conducted  the  footsteps  of  the  first  travellers.  They  are 
the  constant  lure,  when  they  flow  by  our  doors,  to  dis 
tant  enterprise  and  adventure,  and,  by  a  natural  impulse, 
the  dwellers  on  their  banks  will  at  length  accompany 
their  currents  to  the  lowlands  of  the  globe,  or  explore 
at  their  invitation  the  interior  of  continents.  They  are 
the  natural  highways  of  all  nations,  not  only  levelling 
the  ground  and  removing  obstacles  from  the  path  of  the 
traveller,  quenching  his  thirst  and  bearing  him  on  ther 


CO  A  CORD    RIVER.  17 

bosoms,  but  conducting  him  through  the  most  interesting 
scenery,  the  most  populous  portions  of  the  globe,  and 
where  the  animal  and  vegetable  kingdoms  attain  their 
greatest  perfection. 

I  had  often  stood  on  the  banks  of  the  Concord,  watch 
ing  the  lapse  of  the  current,  an  emblem  of  all  progress, 
following  the  same  law  with  the  system,  with  time,  and 
all  that  is  made ;  the  weeds  at  the  bottom  gently  bend 
ing  down  the  stream,  shaken  by  the  watery  wind,  still 
planted  where  their  seeds  had  sunk,  but  erelong  to  die 
and  go  down  likewise ;  the  shining  pebbles,  not  yet  anx 
ious  to  better  their  condition,  the  chips  and  weeds,  and 
occasional  logs  and  stems  of  trees  that  floated  past,  fulfil 
ling  their  fate,  were  objects  of  singular  interest  to  me, 
and  at  last  I  resolved  to  launch  myself  on  its  bosom  and 
float  whither  it  would  bear  me. 


SATURDAY. 


"Come,  come,  ay  lovely  fair,  and  let  us  try 
Those  rural  delicacies." 

curtgfs  Invitation  to  the  Soul.    Qc 


SATUKDAY. 


AT  length,  on  Saturday,  the  last  day  of  August,  1839 
we  two,  brothers,  and  natives  of  Concord,  weighed  an 
chor  in  this  river  port ;  for  Concord,  too,  lies  under  the 
sun,  a  port  of  entry  and  departure  for  the  bodies  as  well 
as  the  souls  of  men ;  one  shore  at  least  exempted  from 
all  duties  but  such  as  an  honest  man  will  gladly  dis 
charge.  A  warm  drizzling  rain  had  obscured  the 
morning,  and  threatened  to  delay  our  voyage,  but  at 
length  the  leaves  and  grass  were  dried,  and  it  came  out 
a  mild  afternoon,  as  serene  and  fresh  as  if  Nature  were 
maturing  some  greater  scheme  of  her  own.  After  this 
long  dripping  and  oozing  from  every  pore,  she  began  to 
respire  again  more  healthily  than  ever.  So  with  a  vig 
orous  shove  we  launched  our  boat  from  the  bank,  while 
the  flags  and  bulrushes  courtesied  a  God-speed,  and 
dropped  silently  down  the  stream. 

Our  boat,  which  had  cost  us  a  week's  labor  in  the 
spring,  was  in  form  like  a  fisherman's  dory,  fifteen  feet 
long  by  three  and  a  half  in  breadth  at  the  widest  part, 
painted  green  below,  with  a  border  of  blue,  with  refer 
ence  to  the  two  elements  in  which  it  was  to  spend  its 
existence.  It  had  been  loaded  the  evening  before  at 
our  door,  half  a  mile  from  the  river,  with  potatoes  and 
melons  from  a  patch  which  we  had  cultivated,  and  a  few 
atensils,  and  was  provided  with  wheels  in  order  to  be 


22  A    WEEK. 

rolled  around  falls,  as  well  as  with  two  seta  of  oars,  and 
several  slender  poles  for  shoving  in  shallow  places,  and 
also  two  masts,  one  of  which  served  for  a  tent-pole  at 
night ;  for  a  buffalo-skin  was  to  be  our  bed,  and  a  tent 
of  cotton  cloth  our  roof.  It  was  strongly  built,  but 
heavy,  and  hardly  of  better  model  than  usual.  If  right* 
ly  made,  a  boat  would  be  a  sort  of  amphibious  animal, 
a  creature  of  two  elements,  related  by  one  half  its  struc 
ture  to  some  swift  and  shapely  fish,  and  by  the  other  to 
some  strong-winged  and  graceful  bird.  The  fish  shows 
where  there  should  be  the  greatest  breadth  of  beam  and 
depth  in  the  hold ;  its  fins  direct  where  to  set  the  oars, 
and  the  tail  gives  some  hint  for  the  form  and  position  of 
the  rudder.  The  bird  shows  how  to  rig  and  trim  the 
sails,  and  what  form  to  give  to  the  prow  that  it  may 
balance  the  boat,  and  divide  the  air  and  water  best 
These  hints  we  had  but  partially  obeyed.  But  the 
eyes,  though  they  are  no  sailors,  will  never  be  satisfied 
with  any  model,  however  fashionable,  which  does  not 
answer  all  the  requisitions  of  art.  However,  as  art  is 
all  of  a  ship  but  the  wood,  and  yet  the  wood  alone  will 
rudely  serve  the  purpose  of  a  ship,  so  our  boat,  being 
of  wood,  gladly  availed  itself  of  the  old  law  that  the 
heavier  shall  float  the  lighter,  and  though  a  dull  water 
fowl,  proved  a  sufficient  buoy  for  our  purpose. 

"  Were  it  the  will  of  Heaven,  an  osier  bough 
Were  vessel  safe  enough  the  seas  to  plough." 

Some  village  friends  stood  upon  a  promontory  lower 
down  the  stream  to  wave  us  a  last  farewell ;  but  we 
having  already  performed  these  shore  rites,  with  excus 
able  reserve,  as  befits  those  who  are  embarked  on  un 
usual  enterprises,  who  behold  but  speak  not,  silently 
glided  past  the  firm  lands  of  Concord,  both  peopled  cape 


SATURDAY.  23 

and  lonely  summer  meadow,  with  steady  sweeps.  And 
yet  we  did  unbend  so  far  as  to  let  our  guns  speak  for  us, 
when  at  length  we  had  swept  out  of  sight,  and  thus  left 
the  woods  to  ring  again  with  their  echoes ;  and  it  may 
be  many  russet-clad  children,  lurking  in  those  broad 
meadows,  with  the  bittern  and  the  woodcock  and  the 
rail,  though  wholly  concealed  by  brakes  and  hardback 
and  meadow-sweet,  heard  our  salute  that  afternoon. 

We  were  soon  floating  past  the  first  regular  battle 
ground  of  the  Revolution,  resting  on  our  oars  between 
the  still  visible  abutments  of  that  "  North  Bridge,"  over 
which  in  April,  1775,  rolled  the  first  faint  tide  of  that 
war,  which  ceased  not,  till,  as  we  read  on  the  stone  on 
our  right,  it  "  gave  peace  to  these  United  States."  As 
a  Concord  poet  has  sung  :  — 

"  By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 

Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 
Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood, 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 

"  The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept; 
Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps; 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 
Down  the  dark  stream  which  seaward  creeps." 

Our  reflections  had  already  acquired  a  historical  re 
moteness  from  the  scenes  we  had  left,  and  we  ourselves 
essayed  to  sing. 

Ah,  't  is  in  vain  the  peaceful  din 

That  wakes  the  ignoble  town, 
Not  thus  did  braver  spirits  win 

A  patriot's  renown. 

There  is  one  field  beside  this  stream, 

Wherein  no  foot  does  fall, 
But  yet  it  beareth  in  my  dream 

A  richer  crop  than  all. 


24  A    WEEK. 

Let  me  believe  a  dream  BO  dear, 

Some  heart  beat  high  that  day, 
Above  the  petty  Province  here, 

And  Britain  far  away j 

Some  hero  of  the  ancient  mould, 

Some  arm  of  knightly  worth, 
Of  strength  unbought,  and  faith  unsold, 

Honored  this  spot  of  earth; 

Who  sought  the  prize  his  heart  described. 

And  did  not  ask  release, 
Whose  free-born  valor  was  not  bribed 

By  prospect  of  a  peace. 

The  men  who  stood  on  yonder  height 

That  day  are  long  since  gone; 
Not  the  same  hand  directs  the  fight 

And  monumental  stone* 

Ye  were  the  Grecian  cities  then, 

The  Romes  of  modern  birth, 
Where  the  New  England  husbandmen 

Have  shown  a  Roman  worth. 

In  vain  I  search  a  foreign  land 

To  find  our  Bunker  Hill, 
And  Lexington  and  Concord  stand 

By  no  Laconian  rill. 

With  such  thoughts  we  swept  gently  by  this  now 
peaceful  pasture-ground,  on  waves  of  Concord,  in  which 
uras  long  since  drowned  the  din  of  war. 

But  since  wo  sailed 
Some  things  have  failed, 
And  many  a  dream 
Gone  down  the  stream. 

Here  then  an  aged  shepherd  dwelt, 
Who  to  his  flock  his  substance  dealt, 


SATURDAY.  25 

And  ruled  them  with  a  vigorous  crook, 
By  precept  of  the  sacred  Book ; 
But  he  the  pierless  bridge  passed  o'er, 
And  solitary  left  the  shore. 

Anon  a  youthful  pastor  came, 
Whose  crook  was  not  unknown  to  fame, 
His  lambs  he  viewed  with  gentle  glance, 
Spread  o'er  the  country's  wide  expanse, 
And  fed  with  "  Mosses  from  the  Manse." 
Here  was  our  Hawthorne  in  the  dale, 
And  here  the  shepherd  told  his  tale. 

That  slight  shaft  had  now  sunk  behind  the  hills,  and 
we  had  floated  round  the  neighboring  bend,  and  under 
the  new  North  Bridge  between  Ponkawtasset  and  the 
Poplar  Hill,  into  the  Great  Meadows,  which,  like  a  broad 
moccason  print,  have  levelled  a  fertile  and  juicy  place  in 
nature. 

On  Ponkawtasset,  since,  we  took  our  way, 
Down  this  still  stream  to  far  Billericay, 
A  poet  wise  has  settled,  whose  fine  ray 
Doth  often  shine  on  Concord's  twilight  day. 

Like  those  first  stars,  whose  silver  beams  on  high, 
Shining  more  brightly  as  the  day  goes  by, 
Most  travellers  cannot  at  first  descry, 
But  eyes  that  wont  to  range  the  evening  sky, 

And  know  celestial  lights,  do  plainly  see, 
And  gladly  hail  them,  numbering  two  or  threa; 
For  lore  that 's  deep  must  deeply  studied  be, 
As  from  deep  wells  men  read  star-poetry. 

These  stars  are  never  paled,  though  out  of  sight, 
But  like  the  sun  they  shine  forever  bright; 
Ay,  they  are  suns,  though  earth  must  in  its  flight 
Put  out  its  eyes  that  it  may  see  their  light. 

Who  would  neglect  the  least  celestial  sound, 
Or  faintest  light  that  fall?  on  earthly  ground, 

a 


26  A     WEKK. 

If  he  could  know  it  one  day  would  be  found 
That  star  in  Cygnus  whither  wo  are  bound, 
And  pale  our  sun  with  heavenly  radiance  round? 

Gi  adually  the  village  murmur  subsided,  and  we  seemed 
to  be  embarked  on  the  placid  current  of  our  dreams 
floating  from  past  to  future  as  silently  as  one  awakes  to 
fresh  morning  or  evening  thoughts.  We  glided  noise 
lessly  down  the  stream,  occasionally  driving  a  pickerel 
or  a  bream  from  the  covert  of  the  pads,  and  the  smaller 
bittern  now  and  then  sailed  away  on  sluggish  wings  from 
some  recess  in  the  shore,  or  the  larger  lifted  itself  out  of 
the  long  grass  at  our  approach,  and  carried  its  precious 
legs  away  to  deposit  them  in  a  place  of  safety.  The 
tortoises  also  rapidly  dropped  into  the  water,  as  our 
boat  ruffled  the  surface  amid  the  willows,  breaking  the 
reflections  of  the  trees.  The  banks  had  passed  the 
height  of  their  beauty,  and  some  of  the  brighter  flowers 
showed  by  their  faded  tints  that  the  season  was  verging 
towards  the  afternoon  of  the  year;  but  this  sombre  tinge 
enhanced  their  sincerity,  and  in  the  still  unabated  heats 
they  seemed  like  the  mossy  brink  of  some  cool  well.  The 
narrow-leaved  willow  (Salix  Purshiana}  lay  along  the 
surface  of  the  water  in  masses  of  light  green  foliage,  in 
terspersed  with  the  large  balls  of  the  button-bush.  The 
Bmall  rose-colored  polygonum  raised  its  head  proudly 
above  the  water  on  either  hand,  and  flowering  at  this 
season  and  in  these  localities,  in  front  of  dense  fields  of 
the  white  species  which  skirted  the  sides  of  the  stream, 
its  little  streak  of  red  looked  very  rare  and  precious 
The  pure  white  blossoms  of  the  arrow-head  stood  in  the 
shallower  parts,  and  a  few  cardinals  on  the  margin  still 
proudly  surveyed  themselves  reflected  in  the  water 
though  the  latter,  as  well  as  the  pickerel-weed,  was  now 


SATURDAY.  27 

nearly  out  of  blossom.  The  snake-head,  Chelone  glabra, 
grew  close  to  the  shore,  while  a  kind  of  coreopsis,  turn 
ing  its  brazen  face  to  the  sun,  full  and  rank,  and  a  tall 
dull  red  flower,  Eupatorium  purpureum,  or  trumpet- 
weed,  formed  the  rear  rank  of  the  fluvial  array.  The 
bright  blue  flowers  of  the  soap-wort  gentian  were 
sprinkled  here  and  there  in  the  adjacent  meadows,  like 
flowers  which  Proserpine  had  dropped,  and  still  farther 
in  the  fields  or  higher  on  the  bank  were  seen  the  purple 
Gerardia,  the  Virginian  rhexia,  and  drooping  neottia  or 
ladies'-tresses ;  while  from  the  more  distant  waysides 
which  we  occasionally  passed,  and  banks  where  the  sun 
had  lodged,  was  reflected  still  a  dull  yellow  beam  from 
the  ranks  of  tansy,  now  past  its  prime.  In  short,  Nature 
seemed  to  have  adorned  herself  for  our  departure  with 
a  profusion  of  fringes  and  curls,  mingled  with  the  bright 
tints  of  flowers,  reflected  in  the  water.  But  we  missed 
the  white  water-lily,  which  is  the  queen  of  river  flowers, 
its  reign  being  over  for  this  season.  He  makes  his 
voyage  too  late,  perhaps,  by  a  true  water  clock  who 
delays  so  long.  Many  of  this  species  inhabit  our  Con 
cord  water.  I  have  passed  down  the  river  before 
sunrise  on  a  summer  morning  between  fields  of  lilies 
still  shut  in  sleep ;  and  when,  at  length,  the  flakes  of 
sunlight  from  over  the  bank  fell  on  the  surface  of  the 
water,  whole  fields  of  white  blossoms  seemed  to  flash 
open  before  me,  as  I  floated  along,  like  the  unfolding  of 
a  banner,  so  sensible  is  this  flower  to  the  influence  of  the 
sun's  rays. 

As  we  were  floating  through  the  last  of  these  fa 
miliar  meadows,  we  observed  the  large  and  conspicuous 
flowers  of  the  hibiscus,  covering  the  dwarf  willows, 
and  mingled  with  the  leaves  of  the  grape,  and  wished 


28  A    WEEK. 

that  we  could  inform  one  of  our  friends  behind  of  the 
locality  of  this  somewhat  rare  and  inaccessible  flower 
before  it  was  too  late  to  pluck  it;  but  we  were  just 
gliding  out  of  sight  of  the  village  spire  before  it  oc 
curred  to  us  that  the  farmer  in  the  adjacent  meadow 
would  go  to  church  on  the  morrow,  and  would  carry 
this  news  for  us;  and  so  by  the  Monday,  while  we 
should  be  floating  on  the  Merrimack,  our  friend  would 
be  reaching  to  pluck  this  blossom  on  the  bank  of  the 
Concord. 

After  a  pause  at  Ball's  Hill,  the  St.  Ann's  of  Con 
cord  voyageurs,  not  to  say  any  prayer  for  the  success 
of  our  voyage,  but  to  gather  the  few  berries  which 
were  still  left  on  the  hills,  hanging  by  very  slender 
threads,  we  weighed  anchor  again,  and  were  soon  out 
of  sight  of  our  native  village.  The  land  seemed  to 
grow  fairer  as  we  withdrew  from  it.  Far  away  to 
the  southwest  lay  the  quiet  village,  left  alone  under 
its  elms  and  buttonwoods  in  mid  afternoon ;  and  the 
hills,  notwithstanding  their  blue,  ethereal  faces,  seemed 
to  cast  a  saddened  eye  on  their  old  playfellows;  but, 
turning  short  to  the  north,  we  bade  adieu  to  their 
familiar  outlines,  and  addressed  ourselves  to  new  scenes 
and  adventures.  Naught  was  familiar  but  the  heavens, 
from  under  whose  roof  the  voyageur  never  passes ; 
but  with  their  countenance,  and  the  acquaintance  we 
had  with  river  and  wood,  we  trusted  to  fare  well  under 
any  circumstances. 

From  this  point,  the  river  runs  perfectly  straight 
for  a  mile  or  more  to  Carlisle  Bridge,  which  consists 
of  twenty  wooden  piers,  and  when  we  looked  back 
over  it,  its  surface  was  reduced  to  a  line's  breadth, 
and  appeared  like  a  cobweb  gleaming  in  the  sun 


SATURDAY.  29 

Here  and  there  might  be  seen  a  pole  sticking  up,  to 
mark  the  place  where  some  fisherman  had  enjoyed 
unusual  luck,  and  in  return  had  consecrated  his  rod 
to  the  deities  who  preside  over  these  shallows.  It  was 
full  twice  as  broad  as  before,  deep  and  tranquil,  with 
a  muddy  bottom,  and  bordered  with  willows,  beyond 
which  spread  broad  lagoons  covered  with  pads,  bul 
rushes,  and  flags. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  we  passed  a  man  on  the 
shore  fishing  with  a  long  birch  pole,  its  silvery  bark 
left  on,  and  a  dog  at  his  side,  rowing  so  near  as  to 
agitate  his  cork  with  our  oars,  and  drive  away  luck 
for  a  season ;  and  when  we  had  rowed  a  mile  as 
straight  as  an  arrow,  with  our  faces  turned  towards  him, 
and  the  bubbles  in  our  wake  still  visible  on  the  tranquil 
surface,  there  stood  the  fisher  still  with  his  dog,  like 
statues  under  the  other  side  of  the  heavens,  the  only 
objects  to  relieve  the  eye  in  the  extended  meadow; 
and  there  would  he  stand  abiding  his  luck,  till  he  took 
his  way  home  through  the  fields  at  evening  with  hia 
fish.  Thus,  by  one  bait  or  another,  Nature  allures 
inhabitants  into  all  her  recesses.  This  man  was  the 
last  of  our  townsmen  whom  we  saw,  and  we  silently 
through  him  bade  adieu  to  our  friends. 

The  characteristics  and  pursuits  of  various  ages  and 
races  of  men  are  always  existing  in  epitome  in  every 
neighborhood.  The  pleasures  of  my  earliest  youth 
have  become  the  inheritance  of  other  men.  This  man 
us  still  a  fisher,  and  belongs  to  an  era  in  which  I  my 
self  have  lived.  Perchance  he  is  not  confounded  by 
many  knowledges,  and  has  not  sought  out  many  in- 
rentions,  but  how  to  take  many  fishes  before  the  BUD 


30  A    WEEK. 

Bets,  with  his  slender  birchen  pole  and  flaxen  line, 
that  is  invention  enough  for  him.  It  is  good  even  to 
be  a  fisherman  in  summer  and  in  winter.  Some  men 
are  judges  these  August  days,  sitting  on  benches,  even 
till  the  court  rises ;  they  sit  judging  there  honorably, 
between  the  seasons  and  between  meals,  leading  a 
civil  politic  life,  arbitrating  in  the  case  of  Spaulding 
versus  Cummings,  it  may  be,  from  highest  noon  till 
the  red  vesper  sinks  into  the  west.  The  fisherman, 
meanwhile,  stands  in  three  feet  of  water,  under  the 
same  summer's  sun,  arbitrating  in  other  cases  between 
muckworm  and  shiner,  amid  the  fragrance  of  water- 
lilies,  mint,  and  pontederia,  leading  his  life  many  rods 
from  the  dry  land,  within  a  pole's  length  of  where 
the  larger  fishes  swim.  Human  life  is  to  him  very 
much  like  a  river, 

"renning  aie  downward  to  the  sea." 

This  was  his  observation.  His  honor  made  a  great 
discovery  in  bailments. 

I  can*  just  remember  an  old  brown-coated  man  who 
was  the  Walton  of  this  stream,  who  had  come  over 
from  Newcastle,  England,  with  his  son,  —  the  latter 
a  stout  and  hearty  man  who  had  lifted  an  anchor  in 
his  day.  A  straight  old  man  he  was  who  took  his 
Way  in  silence  through  the  meadows,  having  passed 
the  period  of  communication  with  his  fellows;  his  old 
experienced  coat,  hanging  long  and  straight  and  brown 
as  the  yellow-pine  bark,  glittering  with  so  much  smoth 
ered  sunlight,  if  you  stood  near  enough,  no  work  of 
art  but  naturalized  at  length.  I  often  discovered  him 
unexpectedly  amid  the  pads  and  the  gray  willowi 
wheu  he  moved,  fishing  in  some  old  country  method 


SATURDAY.  31 

—  for  youth  and  age  then  went  a  fishing  together,— 
full  of  incommunicable  thoughts,  perchance  about  his 
own  Tyne  and  Northumberland.  He  was  always  to 
be  seen  in  serene  afternoons  haunting  the  river,  and 
almost  rustling  with  the  sedge ;  so  many  sunny  hours 
in  an  old  man's  life,  entrapping  silly  fish ;  almost 
grown  to  be  the  sun's  familiar;  what  need  had  he  of 
hat  or  raiment  any,  having  served  out  his  time,  and 
seen  through  such  thin  disguises?  I  have  seen  how 
his  coeval  fates  rewarded  him  with  the  yellow  perch, 
and  yet  I  thought  his  luck  was  not  in  proportion  to 
his  years ;  and  I  have  seen  when,  with  slow  steps 
and  weighed  down  with  aged  thoughts,  he  disappeared 
with  his  fish  under  his  low-roofed  house  on  the  skirts 
of  the  village.  I  think  nobody  else  saw  him ;  nobody 
else  remembers  him  now,  for  he  spon  after  died,  and 
migrated  to  new  Tyne  streams.  His  fishing  was  not 
a  sport,  nor  solely  a  means  of  subsistence,  but  a  sort 
of  solemn  sacrament  and  withdrawal  from  the  world, 
just  as  the  aged  read  their  Bibles. 

Whether  we  live  by  the  seaside,  or  by  the  lakes 
and  rivers,  or  on  the*  prairie,  it  concerns  us  to  attend 
to  the  nature  of  fishes,  since  they  are  .not  phenomena 
confined  to  certain  localities  only,  but  forms  and  phases 
of  the  life  in  nature  universally  dispersed.  The  count 
less  shoals  which  annually  coast  the  shores  of  Europe 
and  America  are  not  so  interesting  to  the  student  of 
mature,  as  the  more  fertile  law  itself,  which  deposits 
their  spawn  on  the  tops  of  mountains,  and  on  the 
interior  plains ;  the  fish  principle  in  nature,  from  which 
it  results  that  they  may  be  found  in  water  in  so  many 
places,  in  greater  or  less  numbers.  The  natural  hia* 


32  A    WEEI« 

torian  is  not  a  fisherman,  who  prays  for  cloudy  days 
and  good  luck  merely,  but  as  fishing  has  been  styled 
"a  contemplative  man's  recreation,"  introducing  him 
profitably  to  woods  and  water,  so  the  fruit  of  the 
naturalist's  observations  is  not  in  new  genera  or  species, 
but  in  new  contemplations  still,  and  science  is  only  a 
more  contemplative  man's  recreation.  The  seeds  of 
the  life  of  fishes  are  everywhere  disseminated,  whether 
the  winds  waft  them,  or  the  waters  float  them,  or  the 
deep  earth  holds  them ;  wherever  a  pond  is  dug, 
straightway  it  is  stocked  with  this  vivacious  race. 
They  have  a  lease  of  nature,  and  it  is  not  yet  out. 
The  Chinese  are  bribed  to  carry  their  ova  from  prov 
ince  to  province  in  jars  or  in  hollow  reeds,  or  the 
water-birds  to  transport  them  to  the  mountain  tarns 
and  interior  lakes.  There  are  fishes  wherever  there 
is  a  fluid  medium,  and  even  in  clouds  and  in  melted 
metals  we  detect  their  semblance.  Think  how  in 
winter  you  can  sink  a  line  down  straight  in  a  pas 
ture  through  snow  and  through  ice,  and  pull  up  a 
bright,  slippery,  dumb,  subterranean  silver  or  golden 
fish !  It  is  curious,  also,  to  reflect  how  they  make 
one  family,  from  the  largest  to  the  smallest.  The 
least  minnow  that  lies  on  the  ice  as  bait  for  pickerel, 
looks  like  a  huge  sea-fish  cast  up  on  the  shore.  In 
the  waters  of  this  town  there  are  about  a  dozen  dis 
tinct  species,  though  the  inexperienced  would  expect 
many  more. 

It  enhances  our  sense  of  the  grand  security  and  se 
renity  of  nature,  to  observe  the  still  undisturbed  econ- 
3my  and  content  of  the  fishes  of  this  century,  their  hap- 
pines8  a  regular  fruit  of  the  summer.  The  Fresh- 


SATURDAY.  33 

ter  Sun-Fish,  Bream,  or  Ruff,  Pomotis  vulgaris,  as  it 
were,  without  ancestry,  without  posterity,  still  represents 
the  Fresh- Water  Sun-Fish  in  nature.  It  is  the  most 
common  of  all,  and  seen  on  every  urchin's  string ;  a 
simple  and  inoffensive  fish,  whose  nests  are  visible  all 
along  the  shore,  hollowed  in  the  sand,  over  which  it  is 
steadily  poised  through  the  summer  hours  on  waving 
fin.  Sometimes  there  are  twenty  or  thirty  nests  in  the 
space  of  a  few  rods,  two  feet  wide  by  half  a  foot  in 
depth,  and  made  with  no  little  labor,  the  weeds  being 
removed,  and  the  sand  shoved  up  on  the  sides,  like  a 
bowl.  Here  it  may  be  seen  early  in  summer  assiduous 
ly  brooding,  and  driving  away  minnows  and  larger 
fishes,  even  its  own  species,  which  would  disturb  its 
ova,  pursuing  them  a  few  feet,  and  circling  round  swift 
ly  to  its  nest  again :  the  minnows,  like  young  sharks, 
instantly  entering  the  empty  nests,  meanwhile,  and 
swallowing  the  spawn,  which  is  attached  to  the  weeds 
and  to  the  bottom,  on  the  sunny  side.  The  spawn  is 
exposed  to  so  many  dangers,  that  a  very  small  propor 
tion  can  ever  become  fishes,  for  beside  being  the  con 
stant  prey  of  birds  and  fishes,  a  great  many  nests  are 
made  so  near  the  shore,  in  shallow  water,  that  they  are 
left  dry  in  a  few  days,  as  the  river  goes  down.  These 
and  the  lamprey's  are  the  only  fishes'  nests  that  I  have 
observed,  though  the  ova  of  some  species  may  be  seen 
floating  on  the  surface.  The  breams  are  so  careful  of 
their  charge  that  you  may  stand  close  by  in  the  water 
and  examine  them  at  your  leisure.  I  have  thus  stood 
OTer  them  half  an  hour  at  a  time,  and  stroked  them  fa 
miliarly  without  frightening  them,  suffering  them  to  nib 
ble  my  fingers  harmlessly,  and  seen  them  erect  their 
dorsal  fins  in  anger  when  my  hand  approached  their 

2*  O 


34  A    WEEK. 

ova,  and  have  even  taken  them  gently  out  of  the  water 
with  my  hand ;  though  this  cannot  be  accomplished  by 
a  sudden  movement,  however  dexterous,  for  instant 
warning  is  conveyed  to  them  through  their  denser  ele 
ment,  but  only  by  letting  the  fingers  gradually  close 
about  them  as  they  are  poised  over  the  palm,  and  with 
the  utmost  gentleness  raising  them  slowly  to  the  surface. 
Though  stationary,  they  keep  up  a  constant  sculling  «> 
waving  motion  with  their  fins,  which  is  exceedingly 
graceful,  and  expressive  of  their  humble  happiness ; 
for  unlike  ours,  the  element  in  which  they  live  is  a 
stream  which  must  be  constantly  resisted.  From  time 
to  time  they  nibble  the  weeds  at  the  bottom  or  over 
hanging  their  nests,  or  dart  after  a  fly  or  a  worm.  The 
dorsal  fin,  besides  answering  the  purpose  of  a  keel,  with 
the  anal,  serves  to  keep  the  fish  upright,  for  in  shallow 
water,  where  this  is  not  covered,  they  fall  on  their  sides. 
As  you  stand  thus  stooping  over  the  bream  in  its  nest, 
the  edges  of  the  dorsal  and  caudal  fins  have  a  singular 
dusty  golden  reflection,  and  its  eyes,  which  stand  out 
from  the  head,  are  transparent  and  colorless.  Seen  in 
its  native  element,  it  is  a  very  beautiful  and  compact 
fish,  perfect  in  all  its  parts,  and  looks  like  a  brilliant 
coin  fresh  from  the  mint.  It  is  a  perfect  jewel  of  the 
river,  the  green,  red,  coppery,  and  golden  reflections  of 
its  mottled  sides  being  the  concentration  of  such  rays  as 
struggle  through  the  floating  pads  and  flowers  to  the 
sandy  bottom,  and  in  harmony  with  the  sunlit  brown 
And  yellow  pebbles.  Behind  its  watery  shield  it  dwells 
Par  from  many  accidents  inevitable  to  human  life. 

There  is  also  another  species  of  bream  found  in  OUT 
river,  without  the  red  spot  on  the  operculum,  which,  ao 
wdiug  to  M.  Agassiz,  is  undescribed. 


SATURDAY.  35 

The  Common  Perch,  Perca  flavescens,  which  name 
describes  well  the  gleaming,  golden  reflections  of  its 
scales  as  it  is  drawn  out  of  the  water,  its  red  gills  stand 
ing  out  in  vain  in  the  thin  element,  is  one  of  the  hand 
somest  and  most  regularly  formed  of  our  fishes,  and  at 
such  a  moment  as  this  reminds  us  of  the  fish  in  the  pic 
ture  which  wished  to  be  restored  to  its  native  element 
until  it  had  grown  larger  ;  and  indeed  most  of  this  spe 
cies  that  are  caught  are  not  half  grown.  In  the  ponds 
there  is  a  light-colored  and  slender  kind,  which  swim  in 
shoals  of  many  hundreds  in  the  sunny  water,  in  com 
pany  with  the  shiner,  averaging  not  more  than  six  or 
seven  inches  in  length,  while  only  a  few  larger  speci 
mens  are  found  in  the  deepest  water,  which  prey  upon 
their  weaker  brethren.  I  have  often  attracted  these 
small  perch  to  the  shore  at  evening,  by  rippling  -the 
water  with  my  fingers,  and  they  may  sometimes  be 
caught  while  attempting  to  pass  inside  your  hands.  It 
is  a  tough  and  heedless  fish,  biting  from  impulse,  with 
out  nibbling,  and  from  impulse  refraining  to  bite,  and 
sculling  indifferently  past.  It  rather  prefers  the  clear 
water  and  sandy  bottoms,  though  here  it  has  not  much 
choice.  It  is  a  true  fish,  such  as  the  angler  loves  to  put 
into  his  basket  or  hang  at  the  top  of  his  willow  twig,  in 
shady  afternoons  along  the  banks  of  the  stream.  %  So 
many  unquestionable  fishes  he  counts,  and  so  many 
shiners,  which  he  counts  and  then  throws  away.  Old 
Josselyn  in  his  "  New  England's  Rarities,"  published  in 
1672,  mentions  the  Perch  or  River  Partridge. 

The  Chivin,  Dace,  Roach,  Cousin  Trout,  or  whatever 
else  it  is  called,  Leuciscus  pulchellus,  white  and  red,  al 
ways  an  unexpected  prize,  which,  however,  any  angler 
is  glad  to  hook  for  its  rarity.  A  name  that  reminds  us  of 


86  A  WEI:K. 

many  an  unsuccessful  ramble  by  swift  streams,  when 
the  wind  rose  to  disappoint  the  fisher.  It  is  commonly 
a  silvery  soft-scaled  fish,  of  graceful,  scholarlike,  and 
classical  look,  like  many  a  picture  in  an  English  book. 
It  loves  a  swift  current  and  a  sandy  bottom,  and  bites 
inadvertently,  yet  not  without  appetite  for  the  bait. 
The  minnows  are  used  as  bait  for  pickerel  in  the  winter. 
The  red  chivin,  according  to  some,  is  still  the  same  fish, 
only  older,  or  with  its  tints  deepened  as  they  think  by 
the  darker  water  it  inhabits,  as  the  red  clouds  swim  in 
the  twilight  atmosphere.  He  who  has  not  hooked  tho 
red  chivin  is  not  yet  a  complete  angler.  Other  fishes, 
methinks,  are  slightly  amphibious,  but  this  is  a  denizen 
of  the  water  wholly.  The  cork  goes  dancing  down  the 
swift-rushing  stream,  amid  the  weeds  and  sands,  when 
suddenly,  by  a  coincidence  never  to  be  remembered, 
emerges  this  fabulous  inhabitant  of  another  element,  a 
thing  heard  of  but  not  seen,  as  if  it  were  the  in 
stant  creation  of  an  eddy,  a  true  product  of  the  run 
ning  stream.  And  this  bright  cupreous  dolphin  was 
spawned  and  has  passed  its  life  beneath  the  level  of  your 
feet  in  your  native  fields.  Fishes  too,  as  well  as  birds 
and  clouds,  derive 'their  armor  from  the  mine.  I  have 
heard  of  mackerel  visiting  the  copper  banks  at  a  par 
ticular  season ;  this  fish,  perchance,  has  its  habitat  in 
the  Coppermine  River.  I  have  caught  white  chivin  of 
great  size  in  the  Aboljacknagesic,  where  it  empties  into 
the  Penobscot,  at  the  base  of  Mount  Ktaadn,  but  nc 
red  ones  there.  The  latter  variety  seems  not  to  have 
been  sufficiently  observed. 

The    Dace,  Lcuciscus   argenteus,   is  a  slight  silvery 
minnow,  found  generally  in  the  middle  of  the  stream, 
where  the  current  is  most  rapid,  and  freo'ientiv  con 
founded  with  the  last  named. 


SATURDAY1.  37 

The  Shiner,  Leuciscus  crysoleucas,  is  a  soft-scaled  and 
tender  fish,  the  victim  of  its  stronger  neighbors,  found  in 
all  places,  deep  and  shallow,  clear  and  turbid  ;  generally 
the  first  nibbler  at  the  bait,  but,  with  its  small  mouth  and 
nibbling  propensities,  not  easily  caught.  It  is  a  gold  or 
silver  bit  that  passes  current  in  the  river,  its  limber  tail 
dimpling  the  surface  in  sport  or  flight.  I  have  seen  the 
fry,  when  frightened  by  something  thrown  into  the  water, 
leap  out  by  dozens,  together  with  the  dace,  and  wreck 
themselves  upon  a  floating  plank.  It  is  the  little  light- 
infant  of  the  river,  with  body  armor  of  gold  or  silver 
spangles,  slipping,  gliding  its  life  through  with  a  quirk 
of  the  tail,  half  in  the  water,  half  in  the  air,  upward 
and  ever  upward  with  flitting  fin  to  more  crystalline 
tides,  yet  still  abreast  of  us  dwellers  on  the  bank.  It  is 
almost  dissolved  by  the  summer  heats.  A  slighter  and 
lighter  colored  shiner  is  found  in  one  of  our  ponds. 

The  Pickerel,  Esox  reticulatus,  the  swiftest,  wariest, 
and  most  ravenous  of  fishes,  which  Josselyn  calls  the 
Fresh-Water  or  River  Wolf,  is  very  common  in  the  shal 
low  and  weedy  lagoons  along  the  sides  of  the  stream. 
It  is  a  solemn,  stately,  ruminant  fish,  lurking  under  the 
shadow  of  a  pad  at  noon,  with  still,  circumspect,  vo 
racious  eye,  motionless  as  a  jewel  set  in  water,  or 
moving  slowly  along  to  take  up  its  position,  darting 
from  time  to  time  at  such  unlucky  fish  or  frog  or  insect 
as  comes  within  its  range,  and  swallowing  it  at  a  gulp. 
I  have  caught  one  which  had  swallowed  a  brother 
pickerel  half  as  large  as  itself,  with  the  tail  still  visible 
'n  its  mouth,  while  the  head  was  already  digested  in  its 
stomach.  Sometimes  a  striped  snake,  bound  to  greener 
meadows  across  the  stream,  ends  its  undulatory  pro 
gress  in  the  same  receptable.  TheTOire  so  greedy  and 


38  A    WEEK. 

impetuous  that  they  are  frequently  caught  by  being  en 
tangled  in  the  line  the  moment  it  is  cast.  Fishermen 
also  distinguish  the  brook  pickerel,  a  shorter  and  thicket 
fish  than  the  former. 

The  Horned  Pout,  Pimelodus  ne^ulosus,  sometimes 
called  Minister,  from  the  peculiar  squeaking  noise 
it  makes  when  drawn  out  of  the  water,  is  a  dull  and 
blundering  fellow,  and  like  the  eel  vespertinal  in  his 
habits,  and  fond  of  the  mud.  It  bites  deliberately  as 
if  about  its  business.  They  are  taken  at  night  with 
a  mass  of  worms  strung  on  a  thread,  which  catches 
in  their  teeth,  sometimes  three  or  four,  with  an  eel,  at 
one  pull.  They  are  extremely  tenacious  of  life,  open 
ing  and  shutting  their  mouths  for  half  an  hour  after 
their  heads  have  been  cut  off.  A  bloodthirsty  and 
bullying  race  of  rangers,  inhabiting  the  fertile  river 
bottoms,  with  ever  a  lance  in  rest,  and  ready  to  do  battle 
with  their  nearest  neighbor.  I  have  observed  them  in 
summer,  when  every  other  one  had  a  long  and  bloody 
scar  upon  his  back,  where  the  skin  was  gone,  the  mark, 
perhaps,  of  some  fierce  encounter.  Sometimes  the  fry, 
not  an  inch  long,  are  seen  darkening  the  shore  with 
their  myriads. 

The  Suckers,  Catostomi  Bostonienses  and  tuberculati, 
Common  and  Horned,  perhaps  on  an  average  the  largest 
of  our  fishes,  may  be  seen  in  shoals  of  a  hundred  or 
more,  stemming  the  current  in  the  sun,  on  their  mysteri 
ous  migrations,  and  sometimes  sucking  in  the  bait  which 
the  fisherman  suffers  to  float  toward  them.  The  for 
mer,  which  sometimes  grow  to  a  large  size,  are  frequent 
ly  caught  by  the  hand  in  the  brooks,  or  like  the  red 
thiviu,  are  jerked  out  by  a  hook  fastened  firmly  to  th* 
end  of  a  stick,  ano^.. placed  under  their  jaws.  They  are 


SATURDAY.  39 

hardly  known  to  the  mere  angler,  however,  not  often 
biting  at  his  baits,  though  the  spearer  carries  home 
many  a  mess  in  the  spring.  To  our  village  eyes,  these 
shoals  have  a  foreign  and  imposing  aspect,  realizing  the 
fertility  of  the  seas. 

The  Common  Eel,  too,  Murcena  Bostoniensis,  the  only 
species  of  eel  known  in  the  State,  a  slimy,  squirming 
creature,  informed  of  mud,  still  squirming  in  the  pan, 
is  speared  and  hooked  up  with  various  success.  Me- 
thinks  it  too  occurs  in  picture,  left  after  the  deluge, 
in  many  a  meadow  high  and  dry. 

In  the  shallow  parts  of  the  river,  where  the  current 
is  rapid,  and  the  bottom  pebbly,  you  may  sometimes 
see  the  curious  circular  nests  of  the  Lamprey  Eel, 
Petromyzon  Americanus,  the  American  Stone-Sucker, 
as  large  as  a  cart-wheel,  a  foot  or  two  in  height,  and 
sometimes  rising  half  a  foot  above  the  surface  of  the 
water.  They  collect  these  stones,  of  the  size  of  a  hen's 
egg,  with  their  mouths,  as  their  name  implies,  and  are 
said  to  fashion  them  into  circles  with  their  tails.  They 
ascend  falls  by  clinging  to  the  stones,  which  may  some 
times  be  raised,  by  lifting  the  fish  by  the  tail.  As  they 
are  not  seen  on  their  way  down  the  streams,  it  is 
thought  by  fishermen  that  they  never  return,  but  waste 
away  and  die,  clinging  to  rocks  and  stumps  of  trees  for 
an  indefinite  period  ;  a  tragic  feature  in  the  scenery 
of  the  river  bottoms  worthy  to  be  remembered  with 
Shakespeare's  description  of  the  sea-floor.  They  are 
rarely  seen  in  our  waters  at  present,  on  account  of  the 
dams,  though  they  are  taken  in  great  quantities  at  the 
uaouth  of  the  river  in  Lowell.  Their  nests,  which  are 
very  conspicuous,  look  more  like  art  than  anything  in 
toe  river. 


40  A    WEEK. 

If  we  had  leisure  this  afternoon,  we  might  turn  our 
prow  up  the  brooks  in  quest  of  the  classical  trout  and 
the  minnows.  Of  the  last  alone,  according  to  M.  Agas- 
siz,  several  of  the  species  found  in  this  town  are  yet 
undescribed.  These  would,  perhaps,  complete  the  list 
of  our  finny  contemporaries  in  the  Concord  waters. 

Salmon,  Shad,  and  Alewives  were  formerly  abundant 
here,  and  taken  in  weirs  by  the  Indians,  who  taught 
this  method  to  the  whites,  by  whom  they  were  used  as 
food  and  as  manure,  until  the  dam,  and  afterward  the 
canal  at  Billerica,  and  the  factories  at  Lowell,  put  an 
end  to  their  migrations  hitherward  ;  though  it  is  thought 
that  a  few  more  enterprising  shad  may  still  occasionally 
be  seen  in  this  part  of  the  river.  It  is  said,  to  account 
for  the  destruction  of  the  fishery,  that  those  who  at  that 
time  represented  the  interests  of  the  fishermen  and  the 
fishes,  remembering  between  what  dates  they  were  ac 
customed  to  take  the  grown  shad,  stipulated,  that  the 
dams  should  be  left  open  for  that  season  only,  and  the 
fry,  which  go  down  a  month  later,  were  consequently 
stopped  and  destroyed  by  myriads.  Others  say  that  the 
fish-ways  were  not  properly  constructed.  Perchance, 
after  a  few  thousands  of  years,  if  the  fishes  will  be 
patient,  and  pass  their  summers  elsewhere,  meanwhile, 
nature  will  have  levelled  the  Billerica  dam,  and  the 
Lowell  factories,  and  the  Grass-ground  River  run  clear 
again,  to  be  explored  by  new  migratory  shoals,  even 
as  far  as  the  Hopkinton  pond  and  Westborough  swamp. 

One  would  like  to  know  more  of  that  race,  now 
extinct,  whose  seines  lie  rotting  in  the  garrets  of  their 
children,  who  openly  professed  the  trade  of  fishermen, 
and  even  fed  their  townsmen  creditably,  not  skulking 
through  the  meadows  to  a  rainy  afternoon  sport.  Dint 


SATURDAY.  41 

visions  we  still  get  of  miraculous  draughts  of  fishes,  and 
heaps  uncountable  by  the  river-side,  from  the  tales  of 
our  seniors  sent  on  horseback  in  their  childhood  from 
the  neighboring  towns,  perched  on  saddle-bags,  with 
instructions  to  get  the  one  bag  filled  with  shad,  the  other 
with  alewives.  At  least  one  memento  of  those  days 
may  still  exist  in  the  memory  of  this  generation,  in  the 
familiar  appellation  of  a  celebrated  train-band  of  this 
town,  whose  untrained  ancestors  stood  creditably  at 
Concord  North  Bridge.  Their  captain,  a  man  of  pisca 
tory  tastes,  having  duly  warned  his  company  to  turn  out 
on  a  certain  day,  they,  like  obedient  soldiers,  appeared 
promptly  on  parade  at  the  appointed  time,  but,  unfortu 
nately,  they  went  undrilled,  except  in  the  manurevres 
of  a  soldier's  wit  and  unlicensed  jesting,  that  May  day ; 
for  their  captain,  forgetting  his  own  appointment,  and 
warned  only  by  the  favorable  aspect  of  the  heavens, 
as  he  had  often  done  before,  went  a-fishing  that  after 
noon,  and  his  company  thenceforth  was  known  to  old 
and  young,  grave  and  gay,  as  "  The  Shad,"  and  by  the 
youths  of  this  vicinity  this  was  long  regarded  as  the 
proper  name  of  all  the  irregular  militia  in  Christendom. 
But,  alas !  no  record  of  these  fishers'  lives  remains  that 
we  know,  unless  it  be  one  brief  page  of  hard  but  un 
questionable  history,  which  occurs  in  Day  Book  No.  4, 
of  an  old  trader  of  this  town,  long  since  dead,  which 
shows  pretty  plainly  what  constituted  a  fisherman's 
stock  in  trade  in  those  days.  It  purports  to  be  a  Fish 
erman's  Account  Current,  probably  for  the  fishing  sea- 
Bon  of  the  year  1805,  during  which  months  he  purchased 
daily  rum  and  sugar,  sugar  and  rum,  N.  E.  and  W.  I., 
"  one  cod  line,"  "  one  -  brown  mug,"  and  "  a  line  for  the 
seine " ;  rum  and  sugar,  sugar  and  rum,  "  good  loaf 


42  A    WEEK. 

Bugar,"  and  "  good  brown,"  TV.  I.  and  N.  E.,  in  short 
and  uniform  entries  to  the  bottom  of  the  page,  all  carried 
out  in  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence,  from  March  25th  to 
June  5th,  and  promptly  settled  by  receiving  "  cash  in 
full "  at  the  last  date.  But  perhaps  not  so  settled  alto 
gether.  These  were  the  necessaries  of  life  in  those 
days ;  with  salmon,  shad,  and  alewives,  fresh  and  pick 
led,  he  was  thereafter  independent  on  the  groceries. 
Rather  a  preponderance  of  the  fluid  elements;  but 
such  is  the  fisherman's  nature.  I  can  faintly  remember 
to  have  seen  this  same  fisher  in  my  earliest  youth,  still 
as  near  the  river  as  he  could  get,  with  uncertain  undu- 
latory  step,  after  so  many  things  had  gone  down  stream, 
swinging  a  scythe  in  the  meadow,  his  bottle  like  a  ser 
pent  hid  in  the  grass  ;  himself  as  yet  not  cut  down  by 
the  Great  Mower. 

Surely  the  fates  are  forever  kind,  though  Nature's 
laws  are  more  immutable  than  any  despot's,  yet  to  man's 
daily  life  they  rarely  seem  rigid,  but  permit  him  to 
relax  with  license  in  summer  weather.  He  is  not 
harshly  reminded  of  the  things  he  may  not  do.  She 
is  very  kind  and  liberal  to  all  men  of  vicious  habits,  and 
certainly  does  not  deny  them  quarter ;  they  do  not  die 
without  priest.  Still  they  maintain  life  along  the  way, 
keeping  this  side  the  Styx,  still  hearty,  still  resolute, 
"  never  better  in  their  lives  " ;  and  again,  after  a  dozen 
years  have  elapsed,  they  start  up  from  behind  a  hedge, 
asking  for  work  and  wages  for  able-bodied  men  Who 
has  not  met  such 

"  a  beggar  on  the  way, 
Who  sturdily  could  gang?  .... 
Who  cared  neither  for  wind  nor  wet, 
In  lands  where'er  he  past?  " 


SATURDAY.  43 

u  That  bold  adopts  each  house  ho  views,  his  own ; 
Makes  every  pulse  his  checquer,  and,  at  pleasure, 
Walks  forth,  and  taxes  all  the  world,  like  Caesar  " ;  — 

RS  if  consistency  were  the  secret  of  health,  while  the 
poor  inconsistent  aspirant  man,  seeking  to  live  a  pure 
life,  feeding  on  air,  divided  against  himself,  cannot 
stand,  but  pines  and  dies  after  a  life  of  sickness,  on 
beds  of  down. 

The  unwise  are  accustomed  to  speak  as  if  some  were 
not  sick ;  but  methinks  the  difference  between  men  in 
respect  to  health  is  not  great  enough  to  lay  much  stress 
upon.  Some  are  reputed  sick  and  some  are  "'not.  It 
often  happens  that  the  sicker  man  is  the  nurse  to  the 
Bounder. 

Shad  are  still  taken  in  the  basin  of  Concord  River  at 
Lowell,  where  they  are  said  to  be  a  month  earlier  than 
the  Merrimack  shad,  on  account  of  the  warmth  of  the 
water.  Still  patiently,  almost  pathetically,  with  instinct 
not  to  be  discouraged,  not  to  be  reasoned  with,  revisiting 
their  old  haunts,  as  if  their  stern  fates  would  relent,  and 
still  met  by  the  Corporation  with  its  dam.  Poor  shad ! 
where  is  thy  redress  ?  When  Nature  gave  thee  insjjnct, 
gave  she  thee  the  heart  to  bear  thy  fate  ?  Still  wander 
ing  the  sea  in  thy  scaly  armor  to  inquire  humbly  at  the 
mouths  of  rivers  if  man  has  perchance  left  them  free  for 
thee  to  enter.  By  countless  shoals  loitering  uncertain 
meanwhile,  merely  stemming  the  tide  there,  in  danger 
from  sea  foes  in  spite  of  thy  bright  armor,  awaiting  new 
instructions,  until  the  sands,  until  the  water  itself,  tel) 
thee  if  it  be  so  or  not.  Thus  by  whole  migrating  na 
tions,  full  of  instinct,  which  is  thy  faith,  in  this  backward 
spring,  turned  adrift,  and  peirrhance  knowest  not  where 
men  do  not  dwell,  where  there  are  not  factories,  in  these 


44  A    WEEK. 

days.  Armed  with  no  sword,  no  electric  shock,  but 
mere  Shad,  armed  only  with  innocence  and  a  just  cause, 
with  tender  dumb  mouth  only  forward,  and  scales  easy 
to  be  detached.  I  for  one  am  with  thee,  and  who  knows 
what  may  avail  a  crow-bar  against  that  Billerica  dam  ?  — 
Not  despairing  when  whole  myriads  have  gone  to  feed 
those  sea  monsters  during  thy  suspense,  but  still  brave, 
indifferent,  on  easy  fin  there,  like  shad  reserved  for 
higher  destinies.  Willing  to  be  decimated  for  man's 
behoof  after  the  spawning  season.  Away  with  the 
superficial  and  selfish  phil-anthropy  of  men,  —  who 
knows  what  admirable  virtue  of  fishes  may  be  below 
low-water-mark,  bearing  up  against  a  hard  destiny, 
not  admired  by  that  fellow-creature  who  alone  can 
appreciate  it !  Who  hears  the  fishes  when  they  cry  ? 
It  will  not  be  forgotten  by  some  memory  that  we  were 
contemporaries.  Thou  shalt  "erelong  have  thy  way  up 
the  rivers,  up  all  the  rivers  of  the  globe,  if  I  am  not 
mistaken.  Yea,  even  thy  dull  watery  dream  shall  be 
more  than  realized.  If  it  were  not  so,  but  thou  wert  to 
be  overlooked  at  first  and  at  last,  then  would  not  I  tike 
they;  heaven.  Yes,  I  say  so,  who  think  I  know  better 
than  thou  canst.  Keep  a  stiff  fin  then,  and  stem  all  the 
tides  thou  mayst  meet. 

At  length  it  would  seem  that  the  interests,  not  of  the 
fishes  only,  but  of  the  men  of  Wayland,  of  Sudbury,  of 
Concord,  demand  the  levelling  of  that  dam.  Innumer 
able  acres  of  meadow  are  waiting  to  be  made  dry  land, 
wild  native  grass  to  give  place  to  English.  The  farmers 
Btand  with  scythes  whet,  waiting  the  subsiding  of  the 
waters,  by  gravitation,  by  evaporation  or  otherwise,  but 
sometimes  their  eyes  do  not  rest,  their  wheels  do  not 
roll,  on  the  quaking  meadow  ground  during  the  haying 


SATURDAY.  45 

season  at  all.  So  many  sources  of  wealth  inaccessible. 
They  rate  the  loss  hereby  incurred  in  the  single  town  of 
Wayland  alone  as  equal  to  the  expense  of  keeping  a 
hundred  yoke  of  oxen  the  year  round.  One  year,  as  I 
learn,  not  long  ago,  the  farmers  standing  ready  to  drive 
their  teams  afield  as  usual,  the  water  gave  no  signs  of 
falling ;  without  new  attraction  in  the  heavens,  without 
freshet  or  visible  cause,  still  standing  stagnant  at  an 
unprecedented  height.  All  hydrometers  were  at  fault; 
some  trembled  for  their  English  even.  But  speedy 
emissaries  revealed  the  unnatural  secret,  in  the  new 
float-board,  wholly  a  foot  in  width,  added  to  their  al 
ready  too  high  privileges  by  the  dam  proprietors.  The 
hundred  yoke  of  oxen,  meanwhile,  standing  patient,  gaz 
ing  wishfully  meadowward,  at  that  inaccessible  waving 
native  grass,  uncut  but  by  the  great  mower  Time,  who 
cuts  so  broad  a  swathe,  without  so  much  as  a  wisp  to 
wind  about  their  horns. 

That  was  a  long  pull  from  Ball's  Hill  to  Carlisle 
Bridge,  sitting  with  our  faces  to  the  south,  a  slight 
breeze  rising  from  the  north,  but  nevertheless  water 
still  runs  and  grass  grows,  for  now,  having  passed  the 
bridge  between  Carlisle  and  Bedford,  we  see  men  hay 
ing  far  off  in  the  meadow,  their  heads  waving  like  the 
grass  which  they  cut.  In  the  distance  the  wind  seemed 
to  bend  all  alike.  As  the  night  stole  over,  such  a  fresh 
ness  was  wafted  across  the  meadow  that  every  blade  of 
cut  grass  seemed  to  teem  with  life.  Faint  purple  clouds 
began  to  be  reflected  in  the  water,  and  the  cow-bells 
tinkled  louder  along  the  banks,  while,  like  sly  water-rats, 
we  stole  along  nearer  the  shore,  looking  for  a  place  to 
pitch  our  camp. 


46  A    WEEK. 

At  length,  when  we  had  made  about  seven  miles,  as 
far  as  Billerica,  we  moored  our  boat  on  the  west  side  of 
a  little  rising  ground  which  in  the  spring  forms  an  island 
in  the  river.  Here  we  found  huckleberries  still  hanging 
upon  the  bushes,  where  they  seemed  to  have  slowly 
ripened  for  our  especial  use.  Bread  and  sugar,  and 
cocoa  boiled  in  river  water,  made  our  repast,  and  as  we 
had  drank  in  the  fluvial  prospect  all  day,  so  now  we  took 
a  draft  of  the  water  with  our  evening  meal  to  propitiate 
the  river  gods,  and  whet  our  vision  for  the  sights  it  was 
to  behold.  The  sun  was  setting  on  the  one  hand,  while 
our  eminence  was  contributing  its  shadow  to  the  night, 
on  the  other.  It  seemed  insensibly  to  grow  lighter  as 
the  night  shut  in,  and  a  distant  and  solitary  farm-house 
was  revealed,  which  before  lurked  in  the  shadows  of  the 
noon.  There  was  no  other  house  in  sight,  nor  any  cul 
tivated  field.  To  the  right  and  left,  as  far  as  the  horizon, 
were  straggling  pine  woods  with  their  plumes  against 
the  sky,  and  across  the  river  were  rugged  hills,  covered 
with  shrub  oaks,  tangled  with  grape-vines  and  ivy,  with 
here  and  there  a  gray  rock  jutting  out  from  the  maze. 
The  sides  of  these  cliffs,  though  a  quarter  of  a  mile  dis 
tant,  were  almost  heard  to  rustle  while  we  looked  at 
them,  it  was  such  a  leafy  wilderness  ;  a  place  for  fauns 
and  satyrs,  and  where  bats  hung  all  day  to  the  rocks,  and 
at  evening  flitted  over  the  water,  and  fire-flies  husbanded 
.heir  light  under  the  grass  and  leaves  against  the  night. 
When  we  had  pitched  our  tent  on  the  hillside,  a  few 
rods  from  the  shore,  we  sat  looking  through  its  triangu 
lar  door  in  the  twilight  at  our  lonely  mast  on  the  shore 
just  seen  above  the  alders,  and  hardly  yet  come  to  » 
jtand-still  from  the  swaying  of  the  stream  ;  the  first  en 
•nMChment  of  commerce  on  this  land.  There  was  ouj 


SATURDAY.  47 

port,  our  Ostia.  That  straight  geometrical  line  against 
the  water  and  the  sky  stood  for  the  last  refinements  of 
civilized  life,  and  what  of  sublimity  there  is  in  history 
was  there  symbolized. 

For  the  most  part,  there  was  no  recognition  of  human 
life  in  the  night,  no  human  breathing  was  heard,  only 
the  breathing  of  the  wind.  As  we  sat  up,  kept  awake 
by  the  novelty  of  our  situation,  we  heard  at  intervals 
foxes  stepping  about  over  the  dead  leaves,  and  brushing 
the  dewy  grass  close  to  our  tent,  and  once  a  musquash 
fumbling  among  the  potatoes  and  melons  in  our  boat,  but 
when  we  hastened  to  the  shore  we  could  detect  only  a 
ripple  in  the  water  ruffling  the  disk  of  a  star.  At  inter 
vals  we  were  serenaded  by  the  song  of  a  dreaming  sparrow 
or  the  throttled  cry  of  an  owl,  but  after  each  sound  which 
near  at  hand  broke  the  stillness  of  the  night,  each  crack 
ling  of  the  twigs,  or  rustling  among  tbe  leaves,  there  was 
a  sudden  pause,  apd  deeper  and  more  conscious  silence, 
as  if  the  intruder  were  aware  that  no  life  was  rightfully 
abroad  at  that  hour.  There  was  a  fire  in  Lowell,  as  we 
judged,  this  night,  and  we  saw  the  horizon  blazing,  and 
heard  the  distant  alarm-bells,  as  it  were  a  faint  tinkling 
music  borne  to  these  woods.  But  the  most  constant  and 
memorable  sound  of  a  summer's  night,  which  we  did  not 
fail  to  hear  every  night  afterward,  though  at  no  time  so 
incessantly  and  so  favorably  as  now,  was  the  barking  of 
the  house-dogs,  from  the  loudest  and  hoarsest  bark  to 
ihe  faintest  aerial  palpitation  under  the  eaves  of  heaven, 
from  the  patient  but  anxious  mastiff  to  the  timid  and 
wakeful  terrier,  at  first  loud  and  rapid,  then  faint  and 
glow,  to  be  imitated  only  in  a  whisper ;  wow-wow-wow- 
wow — wo — wo — w — w.  Even  in  a  retired  and  un 
inhabited  district  like  this,  it  was  a  sufficiency  of  sound 


48  A    WEEK. 

for  the  ear  of  night,  and  more  impressive  than  any 
music.  I  have  heard  the  voice  of  a  hound,  just  before 
daylight,  while  the  stars  were  shining,  from  over  the 
woods  and  river,  far  in  the  horizon,  when  it  sounded  as 
sweet  and  melodious  as  an  instrument.  The  hounding 
of  a  dog  pursuing  a  fox  or  other  animal  in  the  horizon, 
may  have  first  suggested  the  notes  of  the  hunting-horn 
to  alternate  with  and  relieve  the  lungs  of  the  dog.  This 
natural  bugle  long  resounded  in  the  woods  of  the  ancient 
world  before  the  horn  was  invented.  The  very  dogs 
that  sullenly  bay  the  moon  from  farm-yards  in  these 
nights  excite  more  heroism  in  our  breasts  than  all  the 
civil  exhortations  or  war  sermons  of  the  age.  "I  would 
rather  be  a  dog,  and  bay  the  moon,"  than  many  a  Ro 
man  that  I  know.  The  night  is  equally  indebted  to  the 
clarion  of  the  cock,  with  wakeful  hope,  from  the  very 
setting  of  the  sun,  prematurely  ushering  in  the  dawn. 
All  these  sounds,  the  crowing  of  cocks,  the  baying  of 
dogs,  and  the  hum  of  insects  at  noon,  are  the  evidence 
of  nature's  health  or  sound  state.  Such  is  the  never 
failing  beauty  and  accuracy  of  language,  the  most  per 
fect  art  in  the  world  ;  the  chisel  of  a  thousand  years 
retouches  it. 

At  length  the  antepenultimate  and  drowsy  hours 
drew  on,  and  all  sounds  were  denied  entrance  to  out 
ears. 

Who  sleeps  by  day  and  walks  by  night, 

Will  meet  no  spirit  but  some  sprite. 


SUNDAY 


"  The  river  calmly  flows, 
Through  shining  banks,  through  lonely  glen, 
Where  the  owl  shrieks,  though  ne'er  the  cheer  of  men 

Has  stirred  its  mute  repose, 
itill  if  ym  should  walk  there,  you  would  go  there  again." 


"The  Indiana  tell  oa  of  a  beautiful  River  lying  far  to  the  south,  which  they 
aril  Merrimack." 

San  DI  MONTS,  Relations  oj  tne  Jesuits,  1604. 


SUNDAY. 


IN  the  morning  the  river  and  adjacent  country  were 
covered  with  a  dense  fog,  through  which  the  smoke  of 
our  fire  curled  up  like  a  still  subtiler  mist ;  but  before 
we  had  rowed  many  rods,  the  sun  arose  and  the  fog 
rapidly  dispersed,  leaving  a  slight  steam  only  to  curl 
along  the  surface  of  the  water.  It  was  a  quiet  Sunday 
morning,  with  more  of  the  auroral  rosy  and  white  than 
of  the  yellow  light  in  it,  as  if  it  dated  from  earlier  than 
the  fall  of  man,  and  still  preserved  a  heathenish  integ- 
rity:- 

An  early  unconverted  Saint, 

Free  from  noontide  or  evening  taint, 

Heathen  without  reproach, 

That  did  upon  the  civil  day  encroach, 

And  ever  since  its  birth 

Had  trod  the  outskirts  of  the  earth. 

But  the  impressions  which  the  morning  makes  vanish 
with  its  dews,  and  not  even  the  most  "  persevering  mor 
tal  "  can  preserve  the  memory  of  its  freshness  to  mid 
day.  As  we  passed  the  various  islands,  or  what  were 
islands  in  the  spring,  rowing  with  our  backs  down 
stream,  we  gave  names  to  them.  The  OL.C  on  which  we 
had  camped  we  called  Fox  Island,  and  one  fine  densely 
wooded  island  surrounded  by  deep  water  and  overrun 
by  grape-vines,  which  looked  like  a  mass  of  verdure 
and  of  flowers  cast  upon  the  waves,  we  named  Grape 


52 


A    WKKK. 


Island.  From  Ball's  Hill  to  Billerica  meeting-house, 
the  river  was  still  twice  as  broad  as  in  Concord,  a  deep, 
dark,  and  dead  stream,  flowing  between  gentle  hills  and 
sometimes  cliffs,  and  well  wooded  all  the  way.  It  was 
a  long  woodland  lake  bordered  with  willows.  For  long 
reaches  we  could  see  neither  house  nor  cultivated  field, 
nor  any  sign  of  the  vicinity  of  man.  Now  we  coasted 
along  some  shallow  shore  by  the  edge  of  a  dense  pal 
isade  of  bulrushes,  which  straightly  bounded  the  water 
as  if  clipt  by  art,  reminding  us  of  the  reed  forts  of  the 
East-Indians,  of  which  we  had  read ;  and  now  the  bank 
slightly  raised  was  overhung  with  graceful  grasses  and 
various  species  of  brake,  whose  downy  stems  stood 
closely  grouped  and  naked  as  in  a  vase,  while  their 
heads  spread  several  feet  on  either  side.  The  dead 
limbs  of  the  willow  were  rounded  and  adorned  by  the 
climbing  mikania,  Mikania  scandens,  which  filled  every 
crevice  in  the  leafy  bank,  contrasting  agreeably  with  the 
gray  bark  of  its  supporter  and  the  balls  of  the  button- 
bush.  The  water  willow,  Salix  Purshiana,  when  it  is 
of  large  size  and  entire,  is  the  most  graceful  and  ethe 
real  of  our  trees.  Its  masses  of  light  green  foliage, 
piled  one  upon  another  to  the  height  of  twenty  or  thirty 
feet,  seemed  to  float  on  the  surface  of  the  water,  while 
the  slight  gray  stems  and  the  shore  were  hardly  visible 
between  them.  No  tree  is  so  wedded  to  the  water,  and 
harmonizes  so  well  with  still  streams.  It  is  even  more 
graceful  than  the  weeping  willow,  or  any  pendulous 
trees,  which  dip  their  branches  in  the  stream  instead 
of  being  buoyed  up  by  it.  Its  limbs  curved  outward 
over  the  -surface  as  if  attracted  by  it.  It  had  not  a  New 
England  but  an  Oriental  character,  reminding  us  of  trim 
Persian  gardens,  of  Haroun  Alraschid,  and  the  artifl 
cial  lakes  of  the  East. 


SUNDAY.  53 

As  we  thus  dipped  our  way  along  between  fresh 
masses  of  foliage  overrun  with  the  grape  and  smaller 
flowering  vines,  the  surface  was  so  calm,  and  both  air 
and  water  so  transparent,  that  the  flight  of  a  kingfisner 
or  robin  over  the  river  was  as  distinctly  seen  reflected 
in  the  water  below  as  in  the  air  above.  The  birds 
seemed  to  flit  through  submerged  groves,  alighting  on 
the  yielding  sprays,  and  their  clear  notes  to  come  up 
from  below.  We  were  uncertain  whether  the  water 
floated  the  land,  or  the  land  held  the  water  in  its  bosom. 
It  was  such  a  season,  in  short,  as  that  in  which  one  of 
our  Concord  poets  sailed  on  its  stream,  and  sung  its 
quiet  glories. 

"  There  is  an  inward  voice,  that  in  the  stream 
Sends  forth  its  spirit  to  the  listening  ear, 
And  in  a  calm  content  it  floweth  on, 
Like  wisdom,  welcome  with  its  own  respect. 
Clear  in  its  breast  lie  aL  these  beauteous  thoughts, 
It  doth  receive  the  green  and  graceful  trees, 
And  the  gray  rocks  smile  in  its  peaceful  arms." 

And  more  he  sung,  but  too  serious  for  our  page.  For 
every  oak  and  birch  too  growing  on  the  hill-top,  as  well 
as  for  these  elms  and  willows,  we  knew  that  there  was  a 
graceful  ethereal  and  ideal  tree  making  down  from  t^e 
roots,  and  sometimes  Nature  in  high  tides  brings  her  mir 
ror  to  its  foot  and  makes  it  visible.  The  stillness  was 
intense  and  almost  conscious,  as  if  it  were  a  natural 
Sabbath,  and  we  fancied  that  the  morning  was  the  even 
ing  of  a  celestial  day.  The  air  was  so  elastic  and 
crystalline  that  it  had  the  same  effect  on  the  landscape 
that  a  glass  has  on  a  picture,  to  give  it  an  ideal  remote 
ness  and  perfection.  The  landscape  was 'clothed  in  a 
mild  and  quiet  light,  in  which  the  woods  and  fences 


54  A    WEEK. 

checkered  and  partitioned  it  with  new  regularity,  and 
rough  and  uneven  fields  stretched  away  with  lawn-like 
smoothness  to  the  horizon,  and  the  clouds,  finely  distinct 
and  picturesque,  seemed  a  fit  drapery  to  hang  over  fairy 
land.  The  world  seemed  decked  for  some  holiday  or 
prouder  pageantry,  with  silken  streamers  flying,  and  the 
course  of  our  lives  to  wind  on  before  us  like  a  green 
lane  into  a  country  maze,  at  the  season  when  fruit-trees 
are  in  blossom. 

Why  should  not  our  whole  life  and  its  scenery  be  act 
ually  thus  fair  and  distinct  ?  All  our  lives  want  a  suit 
able  background.  They  should  at  least,  like  the  life  of 
the  anchorite,  be  as  impressive  to  behold  as  objects  in 
the  desert,  a  broken  shaft  or  crumbling  mound  against  a 
limitless  horizon.  Character  always  secures  for  itself 
this  advantage,  and  is  thus  distinct  and  unrelated  to  near 
or  trivial  objects,  whether  things  or  persons.  On  this 
same  stream  a  maiden  once  sailed  in  my  boat,  thus  un 
attended  but  by  invisible  guardians,  and  as  she  sat  in  the 
prow  there  was  nothing  but  herself  between  the  steers 
man  and  the  sky.  I  could  then  say  witli  the  poet, — 

"  Sweet  falls  the  summer  air 
Over  her  frame  who  sails  with  me  ; 
Her  way  like  that  is  beautifully  free, 

Her  nature  far  more  rare, 
And  is  her  constant  heart  of  virgin  purity." 

At  evening  still  the  very  stars  seem  but  this  maiden's 
emissaries  and  reporters  of  her  progress. 

Low  in  the  eastern  sky 
Is  set  thy  glancing  eye  ; 
And  though  its  gracious  light 
Ne'er  riseth  to  my  sight, 
t  Yet  every  star  that  climbs 
•  Above  the  gnarled  limbs 

Of  yonder  hill, 
Conveys  thy  gentle  will. 


SUNDAY.  55 


Believe  I  knew  thy  thought, 
And  that  the  zephyrs  brought 
Thy  kindest  wishes  through, 
As  mine  they  bear  to  you, 
That  some  attentive  cloud 
Did  pause  amid  the  crowd 

Over  my  head, 
While  gentle  things  were  said. 

Believe  the  thrushes  sung, 
And  that  the  flower-bells  rung. 
That  herbs  exhaled  their  scent, 
And  beasts  knew  what  was  meant, 
The  trees  a  welcome  waved, 
And  lakes  their  margins  laved, 

When  thy  free  mind 
To  my  retreat  did  wind. 

It  was  a  summer  eve, 
The  air  did  gently  heave 
While  yet  a  low-hung  cloud 
Thy  eastern  skies  did  shroud ; 
The  lightning's  silent  gleam, 
Startling  my  drowsy  dream, 

Seemed  like  the  flash 
Under  thy  dark  eyelash. 

Still  will  I  strive  to  be 
As  if  thou  wert  with  me ; 
Whatever  path  I  take, 
It  shall  be  for  thy  sake, 
Of  gentle  slope  and  wide, 
As  thou  wert  by  my  side, 

Without  a  root 
To  trip  thy  gentle  foot. 

I  '11  walk  with  gentle  pace, 
And  choose  the  smoothest  place 
And  careful  dip  the  oar, 
And  shun  the  winding  shore 
And  gently  steer  my  boat 
Where  water-lilies  float, 

And  cardinal  flowers 
Stand  in  their  sylvan  bowei* 


56  A    WEEK. 

It  required  some  rudeness  to  disturb  with  our  boat 
the  inirror-like  surface  of  the  water,  in  which  every 
twig  and  blade  of  grass  was  so  faithfully  reflected ;  too 
faithfully  indeed  for  art  to  imitate,  for  only  Nature  may 
exaggerate  herself.  The  shallowest  still  water  is  un 
fathomable.  Wherever  the  trees  and  skies  are  reflected, 
there  is  more  than  Atlantic  depth,  and  no  danger  of 
fancy  running  aground.  We  notice  that  it  required  a 
separate  intention  of  the  eye,  a  more  free  and  abstracted 
vision,  to  see  the  reflected  trees  and  the  sky,  than  to  see 
the  river  bottom  merely ;  and  so  are  there  manifold 
visions  in  the  direction  of  every  object,  and  even  the 
most  opaque  reflect  the  heavens  from  their  surface. 
Some  men  have  their  eyes  naturally  intended  to  the  ono 
and  some  to  the  other  object. 

M  A  man  that  looks  on  glass, 
On  it  may  stay  his  eye, 
Or,  if  he  pleaseth,  through  it  pass, 
And  the  heavens  espy." 

Two  men  in  a  skiff,  whom  we  passed  hereabouts, 
floating  buoyantly  amid  the  reflections  of  the  trees,  like 
a  feather  in  mid-air,  or  a  leaf  which  is  wafted  gently 
from  its  twig  to  the  water  without  turning  over,  seemed 
still  in  their  element,  and  to  have  very  delicately  availed 
themselves  of  the  natural  laws.  Their  floating  there 
was  a  beautiful  and  successful  experiment  in  natural 
philosophy,  and  it  served  to  ennoble  in  our  eyes  the  art 
of  navigation ;  for  as  birds  fly  and  fishes  swim,  so  these 
men  sailed.  It  reminded  us  how  much  fairer  and  nobler 
all  the  actions  of  man  might  be,  and  that  our  life  in  ita 
whole  economy  might  be  as  beautiful  as  the  fairest 
works  of  art  or  nature. 

The  sun  lodged  on  the  old  gray  cliffs,  and  glanced 


SUNDAY.  57 

from  every  pad;  the  bulrushes  and  flags  seemed  to 
rejoice  in  the  delicious  light  and  air ;  the  meadows  were 
a-drinking  at  their  leisure ;  the  frogs  sat  meditating,  all 
sabbath  thoughts,  summing  up  their  week,  with  one  eye 
out  on  the  golden  sun,  and  one  toe  upon  a  reed,  eying 
the  wondrous  universe  in  which  they  act  their  part ;  the 
fishes  swam  more  staid  and  soberly,  as  maidens  go  to 
church ;  shoals  of  golden  and  silver  minnows  rose  to  the 
surface  to  behold  the  heavens,  and  then  sheered  off  into 
more  sombre  aisles ;  they  swept  by  as  if  moved  by  one 
mind,  continually  gliding  past  each  other,  and  yet  pre 
serving  the  form  of  their  battalion  unchanged,  as  if  they 
were  still  embraced  by  the  transparent  membrane  which 
held  the  spawn ;  a  young  band  of  brethren  and  sisters 
trying  their  new  fins ;  now  they  wheeled,  now  shot 
ahead,  and  when  we  drove  them  to  the  shore  and  cut 
them  off,  they  dexterously  tacked  and  passed  under 
neath  the  boat.  Over  the  old  wooden  bridges  no  trav 
eller  crossed,  and  neither  the  river  nor  the  fishes  avoided 
to  glide  between  the  abutments. 

Here  was  a  village  not  far  off  behind  the  woods,  Bil- 
lerica,  settled  not  long  ago,  and  the  children  still  bear 
the  names  of  the  first  settlers  in  this  late  "howling 
wilderness  " ;  yet  to  all  intents  and  purposes  it  is  as  old 
as  Fernay  or  as  Mantua,  an  old  gray  town  where  men 
grow  old  and  sleep  already  under  moss-grown  monu 
ments,  —  outgrow  their  usefulness.  This  is  ancient 
Billerica,  (Villarica?)  now  in  its  dotage,  named  from 
the  English  Billericay,  and  whose  Indian  name  was 
Shawshine.  I  never  heard  that  it  was  young.  See,  is 
not  nature  here  gone  to  decay,  farms  all  run  out,  meet 
ing-house  grown  gray  and  racked  with  age?  If  you 
know  of  its  early  youth,  ask  those  old  gray  rocks 
3* 


58  A    WEEK. 

in  the  pasture.  It  has  a  bell  that  sounds  sometimes  as 
far  as  Concord  woods ;  I  have  heard  that,  —  ay,  hear 
it  now.  No  wonder  that  such  a  sound  startled  the 
dreaming  Indian,  and  frightened  his  game,  when  the 
first  bells  were  swung  on  trees,  and  sounded  through  the 
forest  beyond  the  plantations  of  the  white  man.  But 
to-day  I  like  best  the  echo  amid  these  cliffs  and  woods. 
It  is  no  feeble  imitation,  but  rather  its  original,  or  as  if 
some  rural  Orpheus  played  over  the  strain  again  tc 
show  how  it  should  sound. 

Dong,  sounds  the  brass  in  the  east, 
As  if  to  a  funeral  feast, 
But  I  like  that  sound  the  best 
Out  of  the  fluttering  west. 

The  steeple  ringeth  a  knell, 
But  the  fairies'  silvery  bell 
Is  the  voice  of  that  gentle  folk, 
Or  else  the  horizon  that  spoke. 

Its  metal  is  not  of  brass, 
But  air,  and  water,  and  glass, 
And  under  a  cloud  it  is  swung, 
And  by  the  wind  it  is  rung. 

When  the  steeple  tolleth  the  noon, 

It  soundeth  not  so  soon, 

Yet  it  rings  a  far  earlier  hour, 

And  the  sun  has  not  reached  its  tower. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  road  runs  up  to  Carlisle,  city 
of  the  woods,  which,  if  it  is  less  civil,  is  the  more  natu 
ral.  It  does  well  hold  the  earth  together.  It  gets 
laughed  at  because  it  is  a  small  town,  I  know,  but  never- 
'heless  it  is  a  place  where  great  men  may  be  born  any 
lay,  for  fair  winds  and  foul  blow  right  on  over  it  with 
out  distinction.  It  has  a  meeting-house  and  horse-shed^ 


SUNDAY.  5i> 

A  tavern  and  &  blacksmith's  shop,  for  centre,  and  a  good 
deal  of  wood  to  cut  and  cord  yet.  And 

"  Bedford,  most  noble  Bedford, 
I  shall  not  thee  forget." 

History  has  remembered  thee;  especially  that  meek 
and  humble  petition  of  thy  old  planters,  like  the  wail 
ing  of  the  Lord's  own  people,  "  To  the  gentlemen,  the 
selectmen"  of  Concord,  praying  to  be  erected  into  a 
separate  parish.  We  can  hardly  credit  that  so  plaintive 
a  psalm  resounded  but  little  more  than  a  century  ago 
along  these  Babylonish  waters.  "  In  the  extreme  diffi 
cult  seasons  of  heat  and  cold,"  said  they,  "we  were 
ready  to  say  of  the  Sabbath,  Behold  what  a  weariness  is 
it."  —  "  Gentlemen,  if  our  seeking  to  draw  off  proceed 
from  any  disaffection  to  our  present  Reverend  Pastor, 
or  the  Christian  Society  with  whom  we  have  taken  such 
sweet  counsel  together,  and  walked  unto  the  house  of 
God  in  company,  then  hear  us  not  this  day,  but  we 
greatly  desire,  if  God  please,  to  be  eased  of  our  burden 
on  the  Sabbath,  the  travel  and  fatigue  thereof,  that  the 
word  of  God  may  be  nigh  to  us,  near  to  our  houses  and 
in  our  hearts,  that  we  and  our  little  ones  may  serve  the 
Lord.  We  hope  that  God,  who  stirred  up  the  spirit  of 
Cyrus  to  set  forward  temple  work,  has  stirred  us  up  to 
ask,  and  will  stir  you  up  to  grant,  the  prayer  of  our 
petition  ;  so  shall  your  humble  petitioners  ever  pray,  as 
01  duty  bound  — "  And  so  the  temple  work  went 
forward  here  to  a  happy  conclusion.  Yonder  in  Car 
lisle  the  building  of  the  temple  was  many  wearisome 
years  delayed,  not  that  thei«j  was  wanting  of  Shittim 
wood,  or  the  gold  of  Opnir,  but  a  site  therefor  con 
venient  to  all  the  worshippers  ;  whether  on  "  Buttrick's 
Plain,"  or  rather  on  "  Poplar  Hill."  —  I:  was  a  tedious 
question. 


60  A     WEEK. 

In  this  Billerica  solid  men  must  have  lived,  select 
from  year  to  year ;  a  series  of  town  clerks,  at  least ;  and 
there  are  old  records  that  you  may  search.  Some 
spring  the  white  man  came,  built  him  a  house,  and 
made  a  clearing  here,  letting  in  the  sun,  dried  up  a  farm, 
piled  up  the  old  gray  stones  in  fences,  cut  down  the 
pines  around  his  dwelling,  planted  orchard  seeds  brought 
from  the  old  country,  and  persuaded  the  civil  apple- 
tree  to  blossom  next  to  the  wild  pine  and  the  juniper, 
shedding  its  perfume  in  the  wilderness.  Their  old 
stocks  still  remain.  He  culled  the  graceful  elm  from 
out  the  woods  and  from  the  river-side,  and  so  refined 
and  smoothed  his  village  plot.  He  rudely  bridged  the 
stream,  and  drove  his  team  afield  into  the  river  mead 
ows,  cut  the  wild  grass,  and  laid  bare  the  homes  of 
beaver,  otter,  muskrat,  and  with  the  whetting  of  his 
scythe  scared  off  the  deer  and  bear.  He  set  up  a  mill, 
and  fields  of  English  grain  sprang  in  the  virgin  soil. 
And  with  his  grain  he  scattered  the  seeds  of  the  dande 
lion  and  the  wild  trefoil  over  the  meadows,  mingling  his 
English  flowers  with  the  wild  native  ones.  The  bris 
tling  burdock,  the  sweet-scented  catnip,  and  the  humble 
yarrow  planted  themselves  along  his  woodland  road, 
they  too  seeking  "  freedom  to  worship  God "  in  their 
way.  And  thus  he  plants  a  town.  The  white  man's 
mullein  soon  reigned  in  Indian  cornfields,  and  sweet- 
scented  English  grasses  clothed  the  new  soil.  Where, 
then,  could  the  Red  Man  set  his  foot?  The  honey-bee 
hummed  through  the  Massachusetts  woods,  and  sipped 
the  wild-flowers  round  the  Indian's  wigwam,  perchance 
unnoticed,  when,  with  prophetic  warning,  it  stung  the 
Red  child's  hand,  forerunner  of  that  industrious  tribe 
that  was  to  come  and  pluck  the  wild-flower  of  his  rac« 
ip  by  the  root. 


SUNDAY.  61 

The  1/hite  man  comes,  pale  as  the  dawn,  with  a  load 
of  thought,  with  a  slumbering  intelligence  as  a  fire 
raked  up,  knowing  well  what  he  knows,  not  guessing 
but  calculating ;  strong  in  community,  yielding  obedience 
to  authority ;  of  experienced  race ;  of  wonderful,  won 
derful  common  sense ;  dull  but  capable,  slow  but  per 
severing,  severe  but  just,  of  little  humor  but  genuine; 
a  laboring  man,  despising  game  and  sport;  building  a 
house  that  endures,  a  framed  house.  He  buys  the 
Indian's  moccasins  and  baskets,  then  buys  his  hunting- 
grounds,  and  at  length  forgets  where  he  is  buried  and 
ploughs  up  his  bones.  And  here  town  records,  old,  tat 
tered,  time-worn,  weather-stained  chronicles,  contain  the 
Indian  sachem's  mark  perchance,  an  arrow  or  a  beaver, 
and  the  few  fatal  words  by  which  he  deeded  his  hunting- 
grounds  away.  He  comes  with  a  list  of  ancient  Saxon, 
Norman,  and  Celtic  names,  and  strews  them  up  and 
down  this  river,  —  Framingham,  Sudbury,  Bedford,  Car 
lisle,  Billerica,  Chelmsford,  —  and  this  is  New  Angle- 
land,  and  these  are  the  New  West  Saxons  whom  the 
Hed  Men  call,  not  Angle-ish  or  English,  but  Yengeese, 
and  so  at  last  they  are  known  for  Yankees. 

When  we  were  opposite  to  the  middle  of  Billerica, 
the  fields  on  either  hand  had  a  soft  and  cultivated 
English  aspect,  the  village  spire  being  seen  over  the 
copses  which  skirt  the  river,  and  sometimes  an  orchard 
straggled  down  to  the  water-side,  though,  generally,  our 
course  this  forenoon  was  the  wildest  part  of  our  voyage. 
It  seemed  that  men  led  a  quiet  and  very  civil  life 
there.  The  inhabitants  were  plainly  cultivators  of  the 
earth,  and  lived  under  an  organized  political  govern 
ment.  The  school-house  stood  with  a  meek  aspect, 
entreating  a  long  truce  to  war  and  savage  life.  Every 


62  A    WEEK. 

one  finds  by  his  own  experience,  as  well  as  in  history, 
that  the  era  in  which  men  cultivate  the  apple,  and  the 
amenities  of  the  garden,  is  essentially  different  from 
that  of  the  hunter  and  forest  life,  and  neither  can  dis 
place  the  other  without  loss.  We  have  all  had  our  day 
dreams,  as  well  as  more  prophetic  nocturnal  vision ;  but 
as  for  farming,  I  am  convinced  that  my  genius  datea 
from  an  older  era  than  the  agricultural.  I  would  at 
least  strike  my  spade  into  the  earth  with  such  careless 
freedom  but  accuracy  as  the  woodpecker  his  bill  into  a 
tree.  There  is  in  my  nature,  methinks,  a  singular 
yearning  toward  all  wildness.  I  know  of  no  redeeming 
qualities  in  myself  but  a  sincere  love  for  some  things, 
and  when  I  am  reproved  I  fall  back  on  to  this  ground. 
What  have  I  to  do  with  ploughs  ?  I  cut  another  furrow 
than  you  see.  Where  the  off  ox  treads,  there  is  it  not, 
it  is  farther  off;  where  the  nigh  ox  walks,  it  will  not  be, 
it  is  nigher  still.  If  corn  fails,  my  crop  fails  not,  and 
what  are  drought  and  rain  to  me?  The  rude  Saxon 
pioneer  will  sometimes  pine  for  that  refinement  and 
artificial  beauty  which  are  English,  and  love  to  hear  the 
sound  of  such  sweet  and  classical  names  as  the  Pentlaud 
and  Malvern  Hills,  the  Cliffs  of  Dover  and  the  Trosachs, 
Richmond,  Derwent,  and  Winandermere,  which  are  to 
him  now  instead  of  the  Acropolis  and  Parthenon,  of 
Baiae,  and  Athens  with  its  sea-walls,  and  Arcadia  and 
Tempe. 

Greece,  who  am  I  that  should  remember  thee, 

Thy  Marathon  and  thy  Thermopylae? 

Is  my  life  vulgar,  my  fate  mean, 

Which  on  these  golden  memories  can  lean? 

We  are  apt  enough  to  be  pleased  with  such  books  ai 
Evelyn's  Sylva,  Acetarium,  and  Kalendarium  Hortense 


SUNDAY.  63 

but  they  imply  a  relaxed  nerve  in  the  reader.  Garden 
ing  is  civil  and  social,  but  it  wants  the  vigor  and  freedom 
of  the  forest  and  the  outlaw.  *  There  may  be  an  excess 
of  cultivation  as  well  as  of  anything  else,  until  civiliza 
tion  becomes  pathetic.  A  highly  cultivated  man,  —  all 
whose  bones  can  be  bent!  whose  heaven-born  virtues 
are  but  good  manners !  The  young  pines  springing  up 
in  the  cornfields  from  year  to  year  are  to  me  a  refresh 
ing  fact.  We  talk  of  civilizing  the  Indian,  but  that  is 
not  the  name  for  his  improvement.  By  the  wary  inde 
pendence  and  aloofness  of  his  dim  forest  life  he  preserves 
his  intercourse  with  his  native  gods,  and  is  admitted 
from  time  to  time  to  a  rare  and  peculiar  society  with 
Nature.  He  has  glances  of  starry  recognition  to  which 
our  saloons  are  strangers.  The  steady  illumination  of 
his  genius,  dim  only  because  distant,  is  like  the  faint  but 
satisfying  light  of  the  stars  compared  with  the  dazzling 
but  ineffectual  and  short-lived  blaze  of  candles.  The 
Society-Islanders  had  their  day-born  gods,  but  they  were 
not  supposed  to  be  "of  equal  antiquity  with  the  atua 
fauau  po,  or  night-born  gods."  It  is  true,  there  are  the 
innocent  pleasures  of  country  life,  and  it  is  sometimes 
pleasant  to  make  the  earth  yield  her  increase,  and 
gather  the  fruits  in  their  season,  but  the  heroic  spirit  will 
not  fail  to  dream  of  remoter  retirements  and  more 
rugged  paths.  It  will  have  its  garden-plots  and  its  par- 
terres  elsewhere  than  on  the  earth,  and  gather  nuts  and 
berries  by  the  way  for  its  subsistence,  or  orchard  fruits 
with  such  heedlessness  as  berries.  We  would  not 
ulways  be  soothing  and  taming  nature,  breaking  the 
norse  and  the  ox,  but  sometimes  ride  the  horse  wild  and 
chase  the  buffalo.  The  Indian's  intercourse  with  Nature 
is  at  least  such  as  admits  of  the  greatest  independence 


64  A    WEEK. 

of  each.  If  he  is  somewhat  of  a  stranger  in  her  midst, 
the  gardener  is  too  much  of  a  familiar.  There  is  some 
thing  vulgar  and  foul  in  the  latter's  closeness  to  his 
mistress,  something  noble  and  cleanly  in  the  former's 
distance.  In  civilization,  as  in  a  southern  latitude,  man 
degenerates  at  length,  and  yields  to  the  incursion  of 
more  northern  tribes, 

"  Some  nation  yet  shut  in 
With  hills  of  ice." 

There  are  other,  savager,  and  more  primeval  aspects  of 
nature  than  our  poets  have  sung.  It  is  only  white 
man's  poetry.  Homer  and  Ossian  even  can  never  revive 
in  Condon  or  Boston.  And  yet  behold  how  these  cities 
are  refreshed  by  the  mere  tradition,  or  the  imperfectly 
transmitted  fragrance  and  flavor  of  these  wild  fruits.  If 
we  could  listen  but  for  an  instant  to  the  chant  of  the 
Indian  muse,  we  should  understand  why  he  will  not  ex 
change  his  savageness  for  civilization.  Nations  are  not 
whimsical.  Steel  and  blankets  are  strong  temptations ; 
but  the  Indian  does  well  to  continue  Indian. 

After  sitting  in  my  chamber  many  days,  reading  the 
poets,  I  have  been  out  early  on  a  foggy  morning,  and 
heard  the  cry  of  an  owl  in  a  neighboring  wood  as  from  a 
nature  behind  the  common,  unexplored  by  science  or  by 
literature.  None  of  the  feathered  race  has  yet  realized 
my  youthful  conceptions  of  the  woodland  depths.  I  had 
seen  the  red  Election-bird  brought  from  their  recesses 
on  my  comrades'  string,  and  fancied  that  their  plumage 
would  assume  stranger  and  more  dazzling  colors,  like 
the  tints  of  evening,  in  proportion  as  I  advanced  farther 
into  the  darkness  and  solitude  of  the  forest.  Still  lesr 
have  I  seen  such  strong  and  wilderness  tints  on  any 
poet's  string. 


SUNDAY.  65 

These  modern  ingenious  sciences  and  arts  do  not 
affect  me  as  those  more  venerable  arts  of  hunting  and 
fishing,  and  even  of  husbandry  in  its  primitive  and  sim 
ple  form ;  as  ancient  and  honorable  trades  as  the  sun 
and  moon  and  winds  pursue,  coeval  with  the  faculties  of 
man,  and  invented  when  these  were  invented.  We  do 
not  know  their  John  Gutenberg,  or  Richard  Arkwright, 
though  the  poets  would  fain  make  them  to  have  been 
gradually  learned  and  taught.  According  to  Gower, — 

"  And  ladahel,  as  saith  the  boke, 

Firste  made  nette,  and  fishes  toke. 
Of  huntyng  eke  he  fond  the  chace, 
Whiche  nowe  is  knowe  in  many  place ; 
A  tent  of  clothe,  with  corde  and  stake, 
He  sette  up  first,  and  did  it  make." 

Also,  Lydgate  says :  — 

"  Jason  first  sayled,  in  story  it  is  tolde, 
Toward  Colchos,  to  wynne  the  flees  of  golde, 
Ceres  the  Goddess  fond  first  the  tilthe  of  londei 

*  #  *  *  * 

Also,  Aristeus  fonde  first  the  usage 
Of  my  Ike,  and  cruddis,  and  of  honey  swote; 
Peryodes,  for  greto  avauntage, 
From  flyntes  smote  fuyre,  daryng  in  the  roote." 

We  read  that  Aristeus  "  obtained  of  Jupiter  and  Nep- 
,nne,  that  the  pestilential  heat  of  the  dog-days,  wherein 
was  great  mortality,  should  be  mitigated  with  wind." 
This  is  one  of  those  dateless  benefits  conferred  on  man, 
which  have  no  record  in  our  vulgar  day,  though  we  still 
find  some  similitude  to  them  in  our  dreams,  in  which  we 
have  a  more  liberal  and  juster  apprehension  of  things, 
unconstrained  by  habit,  which  is  then  in  some  measure 
put  off,  and  divested  of  memory,  which  we  call  history. 

According  t<r  fable,  when  the  island  of  ^Egina  was 


66  A    WEEK. 

depopulated  by  sickness,  at  the  instance  of  JEacus.,  Ju 
piter  turned  the  ants  into  men,  that  is,  as  some  think,  he 
made  men  of  the  inhabitants  who  lived  meanly  like 
ants.  This  is  perhaps  the  fullest  history  of  those  early 
days  extant. 

The  fable  which  is  naturally  and  truly  composed,  so 
as  to  satisfy  the  imagination,  ere  it  addresses  the  under 
standing,  beautiful  though  strange  as  a  wild-flower,  is  to 
the  wise  man  an  apothegm,  and  admits  of  his  most  gen 
erous  interpretation.  When  we  read  that  Bacchus  made 
the  Tyrrhenian  mariners  mad,  so  that  they  leapt  into 
the  sea,  mistaking  it  for  a  meadow  full  of  flowers,  and 
BO  became  dolphins,  we  are  not  concerned  about  the  his 
torical  truth  of  this,  but  rather  a  higher  poetical  truth. 
We  seem  to  hear  the  music  of  a  thought,  and  care  not 
if  the  understanding  be  not  gratified.  For  their  beauty, 
consider  the  fables  of  Narcissus,  of  Endymion,  of  Mera- 
non  son  of  Morning,  the  representative  of  all  promising 
youths  who  have  died  a  premature  death,  and  whose 
memory  is  melodiously  prolonged  to  the  latest  morning ; 
the  beautiful  stories  of  Phaeton,  and  of  the  Sirens 
whose  isle  shone  afar  off  white  witli  the  bones  of  un- 
buried  men ;  and  the  pregnant  ones  of  Pan,  Prome 
theus,  and  the  Sphinx;  and  that  long  list  of  names 
which  have  already  become  part  of  the  universal  lan 
guage  of  civilized  men,  and  from  proper  are  becoming 
common  names  or  nouns,  —  the  Sibyls,  the  Eumenides, 
the  Parcae,  the  Graces,  the  Muses,  Nemesis,  &c. 

It  is  interesting  to  observe  with  what  singular  unanim- 
Jty  the  farthest  sundered  nations  and  generations  con 
sent  to  give  completeness  and  roundness  to  an  ancient 
fable,  of  which  they  indistinctly  appreciate  the  beauty 


SUNDAY.  67 

or  the  truth.  By  a  faint  and  dream-like  effort,  though 
it  be  only  by  the  vote  of  a  scientific  body,  the  dullest 
posterity  slowly  add  some  trait  to  the  mytlms.  As  when 
astronomers  call  the  lately  discovered  planet  Neptune ; 
or  the  asteroid  Astraa,  that  the  Virgin  who  was  driven 
from  earth  to  heaven  at  the  end  of  the  golden  age,  may 
have  her  local  habitation  in  the  heavens  more  distinctly 
assigned  her,  —  for  the  slightest  recognition  of  poetic 
worth  is  significant.  By  such  slow  aggregation  has 
mythology  grown  from  the  first.  The  very  nursery 
tales  of  this  generation,  were  the  nursery  tales  of  pri 
meval  races.  They  migrate  from  east  to  west,  and 
again  from  west  to  east ;  now  expanded  into  the  "  tale 
divine"  of  bards,  now  shrunk  into  a  popular  rhyme. 
This  is  an  approach  to  that  universal  language  which 
men  have  sought  in  vain.  This  fond  reiteration  of  the 
oldest  expressions  of  truth  by  the  latest  posterity,  con 
tent  with  slightly  and  religiously  retouching  the  old 
material,  is  the  most  impressive  proof  of  a  common  hu 
manity. 

All  nations  love  the  same  jests  and  tales,  Jews,  Chris 
tians,  and  Mahometans,  and  the  same  translated  suffice 
for  all.  All  men  are  children,  and  of  one  family.  The 
same  tale  sends  them  all  to  bed,  and  wakes  them  in  the 
morning.  Joseph  Wolff,  the  missionary,  distributed  cop 
ies  of  Robinson  Crusoe,  translated  into  Arabic,  among 
the  Arabs,  and  they  made  a  great  sensation.  "  Robinson 
Crusoe's  adventures  and  wisdom,"  says  he,  "  were  read 
by  Mahometans  in  the  market-places  of  Sanaa,  Hody- 
eda,  and  Loheya,  and  admired  and  believed!"  On 
reading  the  book,  the  Arabians  exclaimed,  "O,  that 
Robinson  Crusoe  must  have  been  a  great  prophet ! " 

To  some  extent,  mythology  is  on'y  the  most  ancient 


68  A    WEEK. 

history  and  biography.  So  far  from  being  false  or  fabu 
lous  in  the  common  sense,  it  contains  only  enduring  and 
essential  truth,  the  I  and  you,  the  here  and  there,  the 
now  and  then,  being  omitted.  Either  time  or  rare  wis 
dom  writes  it  Before  printing  was  discovered,  a  century 
was  equal  to  a  thousand  years.  The  poet  is  he  who  can 
write  some  pure  mythology  to-day  without  the  aid  of 
posterity.  In  how  few  words,  for  instance,  the  Greeks 
would  have  told  the  story  of  Abelard  and  Heloise, 
making  but  a  sentence  for  our  classical  dictionary, — 
and  then,  perchance,  have  stuck  up  their  names  to  shine 
in  some  corner  of  the  firmament.  We  moderns,  on  the 
other  hand,  collect  only  the  raw  materials  of  biography 
and  history,  "memoirs  to  serve  for  a  history,"  which 
itself  is  but  materials  to  serve  for  a  mythology.  How 
many  volumes  folio  would  the  Life  and  Labors  of  Pro 
metheus  have  filled,  if  perchance  it  had  fallen,  as  per 
chance  it  did  first,  in  days  of  cheap  printing!  Who 
knows  what  shape  the  fable  of  Columbus  will  at  length 
assume,  to  be  confounded  witli  that  of  Jason  and  the 
expedition  of  the  Argonauts.  And  Franklin,  —  there 
may  be  a  line  for  him  in  the  future  classical  dictionary, 
recording  what  that  demigod  did,  and  referring  him 

to  some  new  genealogy.     "  Son  of and . 

He  aided  the  Americans  to  gain  their  independence,  in 
structed  mankind  in  economy,  and  drew  down  lightning 
from  the  clouds." 

The  hidden  significance  of  these  fables  which  is  some 
times  thought  to  have  been  detected,  the  ethics  running 
parallel  to  the  poetry  and  history,  are  not  so  remarkable 
as  the  readiness  with  which  they  may  be  made  to  ex 
press  a  variety  of  truths.  As  if  they  were  the  skeleton* 
if  still  older  and  more  universal  truths  than  any  whose 


SUNDAY.  69 

flesh  and  blood  they  are  for  the  time  made  to  wear.  It 
is  like  striving  to  make  the  sun,  or  the  wind,  or  the  ;sea 
symbols  to  signify  exclusively  the  particular  thoughts 
of  our  day.  But  what  signifies  it?  In  the  mythus  a 
superhuman  intelligence  uses  the  unconscious  thoughts 
and  dreams  of  men  as  its  hieroglyphics  to  address  men 
unborn.  In  the  history  of  the  human  mind,  these  glow 
ing  and  ruddy  fables  precede  the  noonday  thoughts  of 
men,  as  Aurora  the  sun's  rays.  The  matutine  intellect 
of  the  poet,  keeping  in  advance  of  the  glare  of  philoso 
phy,  always  dwells  in  this  auroral  atmosphere. 

As  we  said  before,  the  Concord  is  a  dead  stream,  but 
its  scenery  is  the  more  suggestive  to  the  contemplative 
voyager,  and  this  day  its  water  was  fuller  of  reflections 
than  our  pages  even.  Just  before  it  reaches  the  falls  in 
Billerica,  it  is  contracted,  and  becomes  swifter  and  shal 
lower,  with  a  yellow  pebbly  bottom,  hardly  passable  for 
a  canal-boat,  leaving  the  broader  and  more  stagnant  por 
tion  above  like  a  lake  among  the  hills.  All  through 
the  Concord,  Bedford,  and  Billerica  meadows  we  had 
heard  no  murmur  from  its  stream,  except  where  some 
tributary  runnel  tumbled  in,  — 

Some  tumultuous  little  rill, 

Purling  round  its  storied  pebble, 
Tinkling  to  the  selfsame  tune, 
From  September  until  June, 

Which  no  drought  doth  e'er  enfeeble. 

Silent  flows  the  parent  stream, 

And  if  rocks  do  lie  below, 
Smothers  with  her  waves  the  din, 
As  it  were  a  youthful  sin, 

Just  as  still,  and  just  as  slow. 

But  now  at  length  we  heard  this  staid  and  primitive 


rfO  A    WEKK. 

river  rushing  to  her  fall,  like  any  rill.  We  here  left  it* 
channel,  just  above  the  Billerica  Falls,  and  entered  the 
canal,  which  runs,  or  rather  is  conducted,  six  miles 
through  the  woods  to  the  Merrimack,  at  Middlesex,  and 
as  we  did  not  care  to  loiter  in  this  part  of  our  voyage, 
while  one  ran  along  the  tow-path  drawing  the  boat  by 
a  cord,  the  other  kept  it  off  the  shore  with  a  pole,  so 
that  we  accomplished  the  whole  distance  in  little  more 
than  an  hour.  This  canal,  which  is  the  oldest  in  the 
country,  and  has  even  an  antique  look  beside  the  more 
modern  railroads,  is  fed  by  the  Concord,  so  that  we  were 
still  floating  on  its  familiar  waters.  It  is  so  much  water 
which  the  river  lets  for  the  advantage  of  commerce. 
There  appeared  some  want  of  harmony  in  its  scenery, 
since  it  was  not  of  equal  date  with  the  woods  and 
meadows  through  which  it  is  led,  and  we  missed  the  con 
ciliatory  influence  of  time  on  land  and  water;  but  in 
the  lapse  of  ages,  Nature  will  recover  and  indemnify 
herself,  and  gradually  plant  fit  shrubs  and  flowers  along 
its  borders.  Already  the  kingfisher  sat  upon  a  pine  over 
the  water,  and  the  bream  and  pickerel  swam  below. 
Thus  all  works  pass  directly  out  of  the  hands  of  the 
architect  into  the  hands  of  Nature,  to  be  perfected. 

It  was  a  retired  and  pleasant  route,  without  houses  or 
travellers,  except  some  young  men  who  were  lounging 
upon  a  bridge  in  Chelmsford,  who  leaned  impudently 
over  the  rails  to  pry  into  our  concerns,  but  we  caught 
the  eye  of  the  most  forward,  and  looked  at  him  till  he 
was  visibly  discomfited.  Not  that  there  was  any  pecu 
liar  efficacy  in  our  look,  but  rather  a  sense  of  shame 
left  in  him  which  disarmed  him. 

It  is  a  very  true  and  expressive  phrase,  "  He  looked 
daggers  at  me,"  for  the  first  pattern  and  prototype  of  all 


SUNDAI.  71 

daggers  must  have  been  a  glance  of  the  eye.  First, 
there  was  the  glance  of  Jove's  eye,  then  his  fiery  bolt, 
then,  the  material  gradually  hardening,  tridents,  spears, 
javelins,  and  finally,  for  the  convenience  of  private  men, 
daggers,  krisses,  and  so  forth,  were  invented.  It  is  won« 
derful  how  we  get  about  the  streets  without  being 
wounded  by  these  delicate  and  glancing  weapons,  a  man 
can  so  nimbly  whip  out  his  rapier,  or  without  being 
noticed  carry  it  unsheathed.  Yet  it  is  rare  that  one 
gets  seriously  looked  at. 

As  we  passed  under  the  last  bridge  over  the  canal, 
just  before  reaching  the  Merrimack,  the  people  coming 
out  of  church  paused  to  look  at  us  from  above,  and  ap 
parently,  so  strong  is  custom,  indulged  in  some  heathen 
ish  comparisons ;  but  we  were  the  truest  observers  of 
this  sunny  day.  According  to  Hesiod, 

"  The  seventh  is  a  holy  day, 
For  then  Latona  brought  forth  golden-rayed  Apollo," 

and  by  our  reckoning  this  was  the  seventh  day  of  the 
week,  and  not  the  first.  I  find  among  the  papers  of  an 
old  Justice  of  the  Peace  and  Deacon  of  the  town  of  Con 
cord,  this  singular  memorandum,  which  is  worth  pre 
serving  as  a  relic  of  an  ancient  custom.  After  reform 
ing  the  spelling  and  grammar,  it  runs  as  follows :  "  Men 
that  travelled  with  teams  on  the  Sabbath,  Dec.  18th, 
1803,  were  Jeremiah  Richardson  and  Jonas  Parker,  both 
of  Shirley.  They  had  teams  with  rigging  such  as  is 
used  to  carry  barrels,  and  they  were  travelling  west 
ward.  Richardson  was  questioned  by  the  Hon.  Ephraim 
Wood,  Esq.,  and  he  said  that  Jonas  Parker  was  his 
fellow-traveller,  and  he  further  said  that  a  Mr.  Longley 
was  his  employer,  who  promised  to  bear  him  ?ut."  We 


72  A    WEEK. 

were  the  men  that  were  gliding  northward,  this  Sept 
1st,  1839,  with  still  team,  and  rigging  not  the  most  con 
venient  to  carry  barrels,  unquestioned  by  any  Squire  or 
Church  Deacon  and  ready  to  bear  ourselves  out  if  need 
were.  In  the  latter  part  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
according  to  the  historian  of  Dunstable,  "  Towns  were 
directed  to  erect  '  a  cage '  near  the  meeting-house,  and 
in  this  all  offenders  against  the  sanctity  of  the  Sabbath 
were  confined."  Society  has  relaxed  a  little  from  its 
strictness,  one  would  say,  but  I  presume  that  there  is 
not  less  religion  than  formerly.  If  the  ligature  is  found 
to  be  loosened  in  one  part,  it  is  only  drawn  the  tighter 
in  another. 

You  can  hardly  convince  a  man  of  an  error  in  a  life 
time,  but  must  content  yourself  with  the  reflection  that 
the  progress  of  science  is  slow.  If  he  is  not  convinced, 
his  grandchildren  may  be.  The  geologists  tell  us  that 
it  took  one  hundred  years  to  prove  that  fossils  are  or 
ganic,  and  one  hundred  and  fifty  more,  to  prove  that  they 
are  not  to  be  referred  to  the  Noachian  deluge.  I  am 
not  sure  but  I  should  betake  myself  in  extremities  to 
the  liberal  divinities  of  Greece,  rather  than  to  my  coun 
try's  God.  Jehovah,  though  with  us  he  has  acquired 
new  attributes,  is  more  absolute  and  unapproachable,  but 
hardly  more  divine,  than  Jove.  He  is  not  so  much  of  a 
gentleman,  not  so  gracious  and  catholic,  he  does  not  ex 
ert  so  intimate  and  genial  an  influence  on  nature,  as 
many  a  god  of  the  Greeks.  I  should  fear  the  infinite 
power  and  inflexible  justice  of  the  almighty  mortal 
hardly  as  yet  apotheosized,  so  wholly  masculine,  with  nc 
lister  Juno,  no  Apollo,  no  Venus,  nor  Minerva,  to  inter 
cede  for  ms,  6vp.a  c^uXeovaa  Tf,  KT)8op.evr]  rt.  The  Greciat 
we  youthful  and  erring  and  fallen  gods,  with  the  vice* 


SUNDAY.  73 

of  men,  but  in  many  important  respects  essentially  of 
the  divine  race.  In  my  Pantheon,  Pan  still  reigns  in 
his  pristine  glory,  with  his  ruddy  face,  his  flowing  beard, 
and  his  shaggy  body,  his  pipe  and  his  crook,  his  nymph 
Echo,  and  his  chosen  daughter  lambe;  for  the  great 
god  Pan  is  not  dead,  as  was  rumored.  No  god  ever  dies. 
Perhaps  of  all  the  gods  of  New  England  and  of  ancient 
Greece,  I  am  most  constant  at  his  shrine. 

It  seems  to  me  that  the  god  that  is  commonly  wor 
shipped  in  civilized  countries  is  not  at  all  divine,  though 
he  bears  a  divine  name,  but  is  the  overwhelming  author 
ity  and  respectability  of  mankind  combined.  Men  rev 
erence  one  another,  not  yet  God.  If  I  thought  that  I 
could  speak  with  discrimination  and  impartiality  of  the 
nations  of  Christendom,  I  should  praise  them,  but  it 
tasks  me  too  much.  They  seem  to  be  the  most  civil  and 
humane,  but  I  may  be  mistaken.  Every  people  have 
gods  to  suit  their  circumstances ;  the  Society  Islanders 
had  a  god  called  Toahitu,  "  in  shape  like  a  dog ;  he  saved 
such  as  were  in  danger  of  falling  from  rocks  and  trees." 
I  think  that  we  can  do  without  him,  as  we  have  not 
much  climbing  to  do.  Among  them  a  man  could  make 
himself  a  god  out  of  a  piece  of  wood  in  a  few  minutes, 
which  would  frighten  him  out  of  his  wits. 

I  fancy  that  some  indefatigable  spinster  of  the  old 
school,  who  had  the  supreme  felicity  to  be  born  in  "  days 
that  tried  men's  souls,"  hearing  this,  may  say  with  Nes 
tor,  another  of  the  old  school,  "  But  you  are  younger 
than  I.  For  time  was  when  I  conversed  with  greater 
snen  than  you.  For  not  at  any  time  have  I  seen  such 
saen,  nor  shall  see  them,  as  Perithous,  and  Dryas,  and 
not/icva  Xawf,"  that  is  probably  Washington,  sole  "  Shep 
herd  of  the  People."  And  when  Apollo  has  now  si* 
4 


74  A     WEEK. 

times  rolled  westward,  or  seemed  to  roll,  and  now  for  the 
seventh  time  shows  his  face  in  the  east,  eyes  wellnigb 
glazed,  long  glassed,  which  have  fluctuated  only  between 
lamb's  wool  and  worsted,  explore  ceaselessly  some  good 
sermon  book.  For  six  days  shalt.  thou  labor  and  do  all 
thy  knitting,  but  on  the  seventh,  forsooth,  thy  reading. 
Happy  we  who  can  bask  in  this  warm  September  sun, 
which  illumines  all  creatures,  as  well  when  they  rest  aa 
when  they  toil,  not  without  a  feeling  of  gratitude ;  whose 
life  is  as  blameless,  how  blameworthy  soever  it  may  be, 
on  the  Lord's  Mona-day  as  on  his  Suna-day. 

There  are  various,  nay,  incredible  faiths ;  why  should 
we  be  alarmed  at  any  of  them  ?  What  man  believes, 
God  believes.  Long  as  I  have  lived,  and  many  blas 
phemers  as  I  have  heard  and  seen,  I  have  never  yet 
heard  or  witnessed  any  direct  and  conscious  blasphemy 
or  irreverence ;  but  of  indirect  and  habitual,  enough. 
Where  is  the  man  who  is  guilty  of  direct  and  personal 
insolence  to  Him  that  made  him? 

One  memorable  addition  to  the  old  mythology  is  due 
to  this  era,  —  the  Christian  fable.  With  what  pains, 
and  tears,  and  blood  these^  centuries  have  woven  thia 
and  added  it  to  the  mythology  of  mankind.  The  new 
Prometheus.  With  what  miraculous  consent,  and  pa 
tience,  and  persistency  has  this  mythus  been  stamped 
on  the  memory  of  the  race !  It  would  seem  as  if  it 
were  in  the  progress  of  our  mythology  to  dethrone  Jeho 
vah,  and  crown  Christ  in  his  stead. 

If  it  is  not  a  tragical  life  we  live,  then  I  know  no 
what  to  call  it.  Such  a  story  as  that  of  Jesus  Christ,  — 
the  history  of  Jerusalem,  say,  being  a  part  of  the  Uni 
versal  History.  The  naked,  the  embalmed,  unburied 
death  of  Jerusalem  amid  its  desolate  hills,  —  think  of  it 


SUNDAY.  76 

In  Tasso's  poem  I  trust  some  things  are  sweetly  buried. 
Consider  the  snappish  tenacity  with  which  they  preach 
Christianity  still.  What  are  time  and  space  to  Chris 
tianity,  eighteen  hundred  years,  and  a  new  world?  — 
that  the  humble  life  of  a  Jewish  peasant  should  have 
force  to  make  a  New  York  bishop  so  bigoted.  Forty- 
four  lamps,  the  gift  of  kings,  now  burning  in  a  place 
called  the  Holy  Sepulchre ;  —  a  church-bell  ringing ;  — - 
some  unaffected  tears  shed  by  a  pilgrim  on  Mount  Cal 
vary  within  the  week.  — 

"  Jerusalem,  Jerusalem,  when  I  forget  thee,  may  my 
right  hand  forget  her  cunning." 

"  By  the  waters  of  Babylon  there  we  sat  down,  and 
we  wept  when  we  remembered  Zion." 

I  trust  that  some  may  be  as  near  and  dear  to  Buddha, 
or  Christ,  or  Swedenborg,  who  are  without  the  pale  of 
their  churches.  It  is  necessary  not  to  be  Christian  to 
appreciate  the  beauty  and  significance  of  the  life  of 
Christ.  I  know  that  some  will  have  hard  thoughts 
of  me,  when  they  hear  their  Christ  named  beside  my 
Buddha,  yet  I  am  sure  that  I  am  willing  they  should 
love  their  Christ  more  than  my  Buddha,  for  the  love  is 
the  main  thing,  and  I  like  him  too.  "  God  is  the  letter 
Ku,  as  well  as  Khu."  Why  need  Christians  be  still 
intolerant  and  superstitious  ?  The  simple-minded  sailors 
were  unwilling  to  cast  overboard  Jonah  at  his  own  re- 
l|uest.  — 

"  Where  is  this  love  become  in  later  age  ? 
*  Alas !  't  is  gone  in  endless  pilgrimage 

From  hence,  and  never  to  return,  I  doubt, 
Till  revolution  wheel  those  times  about." 

One  man  says,  — 

"  The  world 's  a  popular  disease,  that  reigns 
Within  the  froward  heart  and  frantic  brains 
Of  poor  distemv/ered  mortals/ 


76  A    WEES- 

Another,  that 

"all  the  world 's  a  stage, 
And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players." 

The  world  is  a  strange  place  for  a  playhouse  to  stand 
within  it.  Old  Drayton  thought  that  a  man  that  lived 
hore,  and  would  be  a  poet,  for  instance,  should  have  in 
him  certain  "brave,  translanary  things,"  and  a  "fine 
madness "  should  possess  his  brain.  Certainly  it  were 
as  well,  that  he  might  be  up  to  the  occasion.  That  is  a 
superfluous  wonder,  which  Dr.  Johnson  expresses  at  the 
assertion  of  Sir  Thomas  Browne  that  "  his  life  has  been 
a  miracle  of  thirty  years,  which  to  relate,  were  not  his 
tory  but  a  piece  of  poetry,  and  would  sound  like  a 
fable."  The  wonder  is,  rather,  that  all  men  do  not 
assert  as  much.  That  would  be  a  rare  praise,  if  it  were 
true,  which  was  addressed  to  Francis  Beaumont,— 
*  Spectators  sate  part  in  your  tragedies." 

Think  what  a  mean  and  wretched  place  this  world 
it ;  that  half  the  time  we  have  to  light  a  lamp  that  we 
may  see  to  live  in  it.  This  is  half  our  life.  Who 
would  undertake  the  enterprise  if  it  were  all  ?  And, 
pray,  what  more  has  day  to  offer?  A  lamp  that  burns 
more  clear,  a  purer  oil,  say  winter-strained,  that  so 
we  may  pursue  our  idleness  with  less  obstruction. 
Bribed  with  a  little  sunlight  and  a  few  prismatic  tints, 
we  bless  our  Maker,  and  stave  off  his  wrath  with 

aymns. 

I  make  ye  an  offer, 

Ye  gods,  hear  the  scoffer, 

The  scheme  will  not  hurt  you, 

If  ye  will  find  goodness,  I  will  find  virtue. 

Though  I  am  your  creature, 

And  child  of  your  nature, 

I  have  pride  still  unbended, 

And  blood  uudescended, 


SUNDAY  77 

Some  free  independence, 
And  my  own  descendants. 
I  cannot  toil  blindly, 
Though  ye  behave  kindly, 
And  I  swear  by  the  rood, 
I  '11  be  slave  to  no  God. 
If  ye  will  deal  plainly, 
I  will  strive  mainly, 
If  ye  will  discover, 
Great  plans  to  your  lover, 
And  give  him  a  sphere 
Somewhat  larger  than  here. 

"  Verily,  my  angels !  I  was  abashed  on  account  of  my 
servant,  who  had  no  Providence  but  me ;  therefore  did 
I  pardon  him."  —  The  Gulistan  of  Sadi. 

Most  people  with  whom  I  talk,  men  and  women  even 
of  some  originality  and  genius,  have  their  scheme  of  the 
universe  all  cut  and  dried,  —  very  dry,  I  assure  you,  to 
hear,  dry  enough  to  burn,  dry-rotted  and  powder-post, 
methinks,  —  which  they  set  up  between  you  and  them  in 
the  shortest  intercourse ;  an  ancient  and  tottering  frame 
with  all  its  boards  blown  off.  They  do  not  walk  with 
out  their  bed.  Some,  to  me,  seemingly  very  unimpor 
tant  and  unsubstantial  things  and  relations,  are  for  them 
everlastingly  settled,  —  as  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost, 
and  the  like.  These  are  like  the  everlasting  hills  to 
them.  But  in  all  my  wanderings  I  never  came  across 
the  least  vestige  of  authority  for  these  things.  They 
nave  not  left  so  distinct  a  trace  as  the  delicate  flower  of 
a  remote  geological  period  on  the  coal  in  my  grate. 
The  wisest  man  preaches  no  doctrines ;  he  has  no 
scheme ;  he  sees  no  rafter,  not  even  a  cobweb,  against 
the  heavens.  It  is  clear  sky.  If  I  ever  see  more 
llearly  at  one  time  than  at  another,  the  medium  through 


78  A    WEEK. 

which  I  see  is  clearer.  To  see  from  earth  to  heaven, 
and  see  there  standing,  still  a  fixture,  that  old  Jewish 
Bcheme !  What  right  have  you  to  hold  up  this  obstacle 
to  my  understanding  you,  to  your  understanding  me! 
You  did  not  invent  it ;  it  was  imposed  on  you.  Exam 
ine  your  authority.  Even  Christ,  we  fear,  had  his 
scheme,  his  conformity  to  tradition,  which  slightly  viti 
ates  his  teaching.  He  had  not  swallowed  all  formulas. 
Pie  preached  some  mere  doctrines.  As  for  me,  Abra- 
ham,  Isaac,  and  Jacob  are  now  only  the  subtilest  imagi 
nable  essences,  which  would  not  stain  the  morning  sky. 
Your  scheme  must  be  the  framework  of  the  universe ; 
all  other  schemes  will  soon  be  ruins.  The  perfect  God 
in  his  revelations  of  himself  has  never  got  to  the  length 
of  one  such  proposition  as  you,  his  prophets,  state. 
Have  you  learned  the  alphabet  of  heaven  and  can  count 
three  ?  Do  you  know  the  number  of  God's  family  ? 
Can  you  put  mysteries  into  words  ?  Do  you  presume  to 
fable  of  the  ineffable  ?  Pray,  what  geographer  are  you, 
that  speak  of  heaven's  topography?  Whose  friend 
are  you  that  speak  of  God's  personality?  Do  you, 
Miles  Howard,  think  that  he  has  made  you  his  confi 
dant  ?  Tell  me  of  the  height  of  the  mountains  of  the 
moon,  or  of  the  diameter  of  space,  and  I  may  believe  you, 
but  of  the  secret  history  of  the  Almighty,  and  I  shall  pro 
nounce  thee  mad.  Yet  we  have  a  sort  of  family  history 
of  our  God,  —  so  have  the  Tahitians  of  theirs,  —  and 
some  old  poet's  grand  imagination  is  imposed  on  us  as 
adamantine  everlasting  truth,  and  God's  own  word 
Pythagoras  says,  truly  enough,  "A  true  assertion  re 
specting  God,  is  an  assertion  of  God";  but  we  maj 
well  doubt  if  thnrc  is  any  example  of  this  in  litora 
tore. 


SUNDAY.  79 

The  New  Testament  is  an  invaluable  book,  though  1 
confess  to  having  been  slightly  prejudiced  against  it  in 
my  very  early  days  by  the  church  and  the  Sabbath 
school,  so  that  it  seemed,  before  I  read  it,  to  be  the  yel 
lowest  book  in  the  catalogue.  Yet  I  early  escaped  from 
their  meshes.  It  was  hard  to  get  the  commentaries  out 
of  one's  head  and  taste  its  true  flavor.  —  I  think  that 
Pilgrim's  Progress  is  the  best  sermon  which  has  been 
preached  from  this  text ;  almost  all  other  sermons  that 
I  have  heard,  or  heard  of,  have  been  but  poor  imitations 
of  this.  —  It  would  be  a  poor  story  to  be  prejudiced 
against  the  Life  of  Christ  because  the  book  has  been 
edited  by  Christians.  In  fact,  I  love  this  book  rarely, 
though  it  is  a  sort  of  castle  in  the  air  to  me,  which  I  am 
permitted  to  dream.  Having  come  to  it  so  recently  and 
freshly,  it  has  the  greater  charm,  so  that  I  cannot  find 
any  to  talk  with  about  it.  I  never  read  a  novel,  they 
have  so  little  real  life  and  thought  in  them.  The  read 
ing  which  I  love  best  is  the  scriptures  of  the  several 
nations,  though  it  happens  that  I  am  better  acquainted 
with  those  of  the  Hindoos,  the  Chinese,  and  the  Persians, 
than  of  the  Hebrews,  which  I  have  come  to  last.  Give 
me  one  of  these  Bibles  and  you  have  silenced  me  for  a 
while.  When  I  recover  the  use  of  my  tongue,  I  am 
wont  to  worry  my  neighbors  with  the  new  sentences; 
but  commonly  they  cannot  see  that  there  is  any  wit  in 
them.  Such  has  been  my  experience  with  the  New 
Testament.  I  have  not  yet  got  to  the  crucifixion,  I 
have  read  it  over  so  many  times.  I  should  love  dearly 
to  isad  it  aloud  to  my  frienis,  some  of  whom  are  seri 
ously  inclined ;  it  is  so  good,  and  I  am  sure  that  they 
have  never  heard  it,  it  fits  their  case  exactly,  and  we 
should  enjoy  it  so  much  together,  —  but  I  instinctively 


80  A    WEEK. 

despair  of  getting  their  ears.  They  soon  show,  by  signs 
not  to  be  mistaken,  that  it  is  inexpressibly  wearisome  to 
them.  I  do  not  mean  to  imply  that  I  am  any  better 
than  my  neighbors ;  for,  alas !  I  know  that  I  am  only  as 
good,  though  I  love  better  books  than  they. 

It  is  remarkable  that,  notwithstanding  the  universal 
favor  with  which  the  New  Testament  is  outwardly  re 
ceived,  and  even  the  bigotry  with  which  it  is  defended, 
there  is  no  hospitality  shown  to,  there  is  no  appreciation 
of,  the  order  of  truth  with  which  it  deals.  I  know  of  no 
book  that  has  so  few  readers.  There  is  none  so  truly 
strange,  and  heretical,  and  unpopular.  To  Christians, 
no  less  than  Greeks  and  Jews,  it  is  foolishness  and  a 
stumbling-block.  There  are,  indeed,  severe  things  in  it 
which  no  man  should  read  aloud  more  than  once.  — 
"  Seek  first  the  kingdom  of  heaven."  —  "  Lay  not  up  for 
yourselves  treasures  on  earth."  —  "  If  thou  wilt  be  per 
fect,  go  and  sell  that  thou  hast,  and  give  to  the  poor, 
and  thou  shalt  have  treasure  in  heaven."  —  "  For  what 
is  a  man  profited,  if  he  shall  gain  the  whole  world,  and 
lose  his  own  soul  ?  or  what  shall  a  man  give  in  exchange 
for  his  soul?"  — Think  of  this,  Yankees  !  — "  Verily,  I 
say  unto  you,  if  ye  have  faith  as  a  grain  of  mustard 
seed,  ye  shall  say  unto  this  mountain,  Remove  hence  to 
yonder  place ;  and  it  shall  remove ;  and  nothing  shall  be 
impossible  unto  you."  —  Think  of  repeating  these  things 
to  a  New  England  audience !  thirdly,  fourthly,  fifteenth- 
]y,  till  there  are  three  barrels  of  sermons !  Who, 
without  cant,  can  read  them  aloud?  Who,  without 
cant,  can  hear  them,  and  not  go  out  of  the  meet 
ing-house  ?  They  never  were  read,  they  never  were 
heard.  Let  but  one  of  these  sentences  be  rightly  read, 
from  any  pulpit  in  the  land,  and  there  would  not  be  left 
one  stone  of  that  rneeting-house  upon  another. 


SUNDAY.  81 

Yet  the  New  Testament  treats  of  man  and  man's  so- 
railed  spiritual  affairs  too  exclusively,  and  is  too  con 
stantly  moral  and  personal,  to  alone  content  me,  who  Am 
not  interested  solely  in  man's  religious  or  moral  nature, 
or  in  man  even.  I  have  not  the  most  definite  designs  on 
the  future.  Absolutely  speaking,  Do  unto  others  as  you 
would  that  they  should  do  unto  you,  is  by  no  means  a 
golden  rule,  but  the  best  of  current  silver.  An  honest 
man  would  have  but  little  occasion  for  it.  It  is  golden 
not  to  have  any  rule  at  all  in  such  a  case.  The  book  has 
never  been  written  which  is  to  be  accepted  without  any 
allowance.  Christ  was  a  sublime  actor  on  the  stage  of 
the  world.  He  knew  what  he  was  thinking  of  when  he 
said,  "  Heaven  and  earth  shall  pass  away,  but  my  words 
shall  not  pass  away."  I  draw  near  to  him  at  such  a 
time.  Yet  he  taught  mankind  but  imperfectly  how  to 
live  ;  his  thoughts  were  all  directed  toward  another  world. 
There  is  another  kind  of  success  than  his.  Even  here 
we  have  a  sort  of  living  to  get,  and  must  buffet  it  some 
what  longer.  There  are  various  tough  problems  yet  to 
solve,  and  we  must  make  shift  to  live,  betwixt  spirit  and 
matter,  such  a  human  life  as  we  can. 

A  healthy  man,  with  steady  employment,  as  wood- 
chopping  at  fifty  cents  a  cord,  and  a  camp  in  the  woods, 
will  not  be  a  good  subject  for  Christianity.  The  New 
Testament  may  be  a  choice  book  to  him  on  some,  but  not 
c/i  all  or  most  of  his  days.  He  will  rather  go  a-fishing 
m  his  leisure  hours.  The  Apostles,  though  they  were 
rishers  too,  were  of  the  solemn  race  of  sea-fishers,  and 
never  trolled  for  pickerel  on  inland  streams. 

Men  have  a  singular  desire  to  be  good  without  being 
good  for  anything,  because,  perchance,  they  think  vaguely 
that  so  it  will  be  good  for  them  in  .,'ae  end.  The  sort  of 

4*  F 


82  A    WEEK. 

morality  which  the  priests  inculcate  is  a  vory  subtle 
policy,  far  finer  than  the  politicians,  and  the  world  is 
very  successfully  ruled  by  them  as  the  policemen.  It  is 
not  worth  the  while  to  let  our  imperfections  disturb  us  al 
ways.  The  conscience  really  does  not,  and  ought  not  to 
monopolize  the  whole  of  our  lives,  any  more  than  the  heart 
or  the  head.  It  is  as  liable  to  disease  as  any  other  part.  I 
have  seen  some  whose  consciences,  owing  undoubtedly  to 
former  indulgence,  had  grown  to  be  as  irritable  as  spoilt 
children,  and  at  length  gave  them  no  peace.  They  did 
not  know  when  to  swallow  their  cud,  and  their  lives  of 
course  yielded  no  milk. 

Conscience  is  instinct  bred  in  the  house, 

Feeling  and  Thinking  propagate  the  sin 

By  an  unnatural  breeding  in  and  in. 

I  say,  Turn  it  out  doors, 

Into  the  moors. 

I  love  a  life  whose  plot  is  simple, 

And  does  not  thicken  with  every  pimple, 

A  soul  so  sound  no  sickly  conscience  binds  it, 

That  makes  the  universe  no  worse  than  't  find*  it. 

1  love  an  earnest  soul, 

Whose  mighty  joy  and  sorrow 

Are  not  drowned  in  a  bowl, 

And  brought  to  life  to-morrow; 

That  lives  one  tragedy, 

And  not  seventy  j 

A  conscience  worth  keeping, 

Laughing  not  weeping; 

A  conscience  wise  and  steady, 

And  forever  ready ; 

Not  changing  with  events, 

Dealing  in  compliments; 

A  conscience  exercised  about 

Large  things,  where  one  may  doubt. 

I  love  a  soul  not  all  of  wood, 

Predestinated  to  be  good, 

But  true  to  the  backbone 

Unto  iteelf  alone, 


SUNDAY.  63 

And  false  to  none ; 

Born  to  its  own  affairs, 

Its  own  joys  and  own  cares; 

By  whom  the  work  which  God  begun 

Is  finished,  and  not  undone; 

Taken  up  whore  he  left  off, 

Whether  to  worship  or  to  scoff; 

If  not  good,  why  then  evil, 

If  not  good  god,  good  devil. 

Goodness !  —  you  hypocrite,  come  out  of  that, 

Live  your  life,  do  your  work,  then  take  your  hat. 

I  have  no  patience  towards 

Such  conscientious  cowards. 

Give  me  simple  laboring  folk, 

Who  love  their  work, 

Whose  virtue  is  a  song 

To  cheer  God  along. 

I  was  once  reproved  by  a  minister  who  was  driving  a 
poor  beast  to  some  meeting-house  horse-sheds  among  the 
hills  of  New  Hampshire,  because  I  was  bending  my  steps 
to  a  mountain-top  on  the  Sabbath,  instead  of  a  church, 
when  I  would  have  gone  farther  than  he  to  hear  a  true 
word  spoken  on  that  or  any  day.  He  declared  that  I  was 
**  breaking  the  Lord's  fourth  commandment,"  and  pro 
ceeded  to  enumerate,  in  a  sepulchral  tone,  the  disasters 
which  had  befallen  him  whenever  he  had  done  any  ordi 
nary  work  on  the  Sabbath.  He  really  thought  that  a 
god  was  on  the  watch  to  trip  up  those  men  who  followed 
any  secular  work  on  this  day,  and  did  not  see  that  it  was 
the  evil  conscience  of  the  workers  that  did  it.  The 
country  is  full  of  this  superstition,  so  that  when  one  en 
ters  a  village,  the  church,  not  only  really  but  from  asso 
ciation,  is  the  ugliest  looking  building  in  it,  because  it  is 
the  one  in  which  human  naturr  stoops  the  lowest  and  is 
most  disgraced.  Certainly,  such  temples  as  these  shall 
erelong  ceas^  to  deform  the  landscape.  There  are  few 


84  A    WEEK. 

things  more  disheartening  and  disgusting  than  wncn  you 
are  walking  the  streets  of  a  strange  village  on  the  Sab 
bath,  to  hear  a  preacher  shouting  like  a  boatswain  in  a 
gale  of  wind,  and  thus  harshly  profaning  the  quiet  at 
mosphere  of  the  day.  You  fancy  him  to  have  taken 
off  his  coat,  as  when  men  are  about  to  do  hot  and  dirty 
work. 

If  I  should  ask  the  minister  of  Middlesex  to  let  me 
speak  in  his  pulpit  on  a  Sunday,  he  would  object,  because 
I  do  not  pray  as  he  does,  or  because  I  am  not  ordained. 
What  under  the  sun  are  these  things  ? 

Really,  there  is  no  infidelity,  now-a-days,  so  great  as 
tbst  which  prays,  and  keeps  the  Sabbath,  and  rebuilds 
the  churches.  The  sealer  of  the  South  Pacific  preaches 
a  truer  doctrine.  The  church  is  a  sort  of  hospital  for 
men's  souls,  and  as  full  of  quackery  as  the  hospital  for 
their  bodies.  Those  who  are  taken  into  it  live  like  pen 
sioners  in  their  Retreat  or  Sailor's  Sung  Harbor,  where 
you  may  see  a  row  of  religious  cripples  sitting  outside 
in  sunny  weather.  Let  not  the  apprehension  that  he 
may  one  day  have  to  occupy  a  ward  therein,  discourage 
the  cheerful  labors  of  the  able-souled  man.  While  he  re 
members  the  sick  in  their  extremities,  let  him  not  look 
thither  as  to  his  goal.  One  is  sick  at  heart  of  this  pago 
da  worship.  It  is  like  the  beating  of  gongs  in  a  Hindoo 
subterranean  temple.  In  dark  places  and  dungeons  the 
preacher's  words  might  perhaps  strike  root  and  grow, 
but  not  in  broad  daylight  in  any  part  of  the  world  that  I 
know.  The  sound  of  the  Sabbath  bell  far  away,  now 
breaking  on  these  shores,  does  not  awaken  pleasing  asso 
ciations,  but  melancholy  and  sombre  ones  rather.  One 
Nn  voluntarily  rests  on  his  oar,  to  humor  his  unusually 
meditative  mood.  It  is  as  the  sound  of  many  catechism* 


SUNDAY.  85 

and  religious  books  twanging  a  canting  peal  round  the 
earth,  seeming  to  issue  from  some  Egyptian  temple  and 
echo  along  the  shore  of  the  Nile,  right  opposite  to  Pha 
raoh's  palace  and  Moses  in  the  bulrushes,  startling  a  mul 
titude  of  storks  and  alligators  basking  in  the  sun. 

Everywhere  "  good  men "  sound  a  retreat,  and  the 
word  has  gone  forth  to  fall  back  on  innocence.  Fall 
forward  rather  on  to  whatever  there  is  there.  Chris 
tianity  only  hopes.  It  has  hung  its  harp  on  the  willows, 
and  cannot  sing  a  song  in  a  strange  land.  It  has  dreamed 
a  sad  dream,  and  does  not  yet  welcome  the  morning  with 
joy.  The  mother  tells  her  falsehoods  to  her  child,  but, 
thank  Heaven,  the  child  does  not  grow  up  in  its  parent's 
shadow.  Our  mother's  faith  has  not  grown  with  her  ex 
perience.  Her  experience  has  been  too  much  for  her. 
The  lesson  of  life  was  too  hard  for  her  to  learn. 

It  is  remarkable,  that  almost  all  speakers  and  writers 
feel  it  to  be  incumbent  on  them,  sooner  or  later,  to  prove 
or  to  acknowledge  the  personality  of  God.  Some  Earl 
of  Bridgewater,  thinking  it  better  late  than  never,  has 
provided  for  it  in  his  will.  It  is  a  sad  mistake.  In 
reading  a  work  on  agriculture,  we  have  to  skip  the  au 
thor's  moral  reflections,  and  the  words  "  Providence " 
and  "  He  "  scattered  along  the  page,  to  come  at  the  prof 
itable  level  of  what  he  has  to  say.  What  he  calls  his 
religion  is  for  the  most  part  offensive  to  the  nostrils.  He 
should  know  better  than  expose  himself,  and  keep  his 
foul  sores  covered  till  they  are  quite  healed.  There  is 
more  religion  in  men's  science  than  there  is  science  in 
their  religion.  Let  us  make  haste  to  the  report  of  the 
committee  on  swine. 

A  man's  real  faith  is  never  contained  in  his  creed,  nor 
is  his  creed  an  article  of  K's  faith  The  last  is  never 


86  A     WEEK. 

adoptc-d.  This  it  is  that  permits  him  to  smile  ever,  and 
to  live  even  as  bravely  as  he  does.  And  yet  he  clings 
anxiously  to  his  creed,  as  to  a  straw,  thinking  that  that 
does  him  good  service  because  his  sheet  anchor  does  not 
drag. 

In  most  men's  religion,  the  ligature,  which  should  be 
its  umbilical  cord  connecting  them  with  divinity,  is  rather 
like  that  thread  which  the  accomplices  of  Cylon  held  in 
their  hands  when  they  went  abroad  from  the  temple  of 
Minerva,  the  other  end  being  attached  to  the  statue  of 
the  goddess.  But  frequently,  as  in  their  case,  the  thread 
breaks,  being  stretched,  and  they  are  left  without  an 
asylum. 

"  A  good  and  pious  man  reclined  his  head  on  the  bosom  of 
contemplation,  and  was  absorbed  in  the  ocean  of  a  revery.  At 
the  instant  when  he  awaked  from  his  vision,  one  of  his  friends, 
by  way  of  pleasantry,  said,  What  rare  gift  have  you  brought 
us  from  that  garden,  where  you  have  been  recreating  ?  He 
replied,  I  fancied  to  myself  and  said,  when  I  can  reach  the 
rose-bower,  I  will  fill  my  lap  with  the  flowers,  and  bring  them 
as  a  present  to  my  friends ;  but  when  I  got  there,  the  fra 
grance  of  the  roses  so  intoxicated  me,  that  the  skirt  dropped 

from  my  hands. '  O  bird  of  dawn  !  learn  the  warmth  of 

affection  from  the  moth  ;  for  that  scorched  creature  gave  up 
the  ghost,  and  uttered  not  a  groan  :  These  vain  pretenders 
are  ignorant  of  him  they  seek  after ;  for  of  him  that  knew 
him  we  never  heard  again  :  —  O  thou !  who  towerest  above 
the  flights  of  conjecture,  opinion,  and  comprehension  ;  what 
ever  has  been  reported  of  thee  we  have  heard  and  read  ;  the 
congregation  is  dismissed,  and  life  drawn  to  a  close ;  and  we 
itill  rrst  at  onr  first  encomium  of  thee  ! '  "  —  Sadi. 

By  noon  we  were  let  down  irto  the  Merrimack  through 
the  locks  at  Middlesex,  just  above  Pawtucket  Falls,  by 
a  serene  and  liberal-minded  man,  who  came  quietly  from 


SUNDAY.  87 

his  book,  though  his  duties,  we  supposed,  did  not  require 
him  to  open  the  locks  on  Sundays.  With  him  we  had 
R  just  and  equal  encounter  of  the  eyes,  as  between  two 
honest  men. 

The  movements  of  the  eyes  express  the  perpetual  and 
unconscious  courtesy  of  the  parties.  It  is  said,  that  a 
rogue  does  not  look  you  in  the  face,  neither  does  an 
honest  man  look  at  you  as  if  he  had  his  reputation  to 
establish.  I  have  seen  some  who  did  not  know  when  to 
turn  aside  their  eyes  in  meeting  yours.  A  truly  con 
fident  and  magnanimous  spirit  is  wiser  than  to  contend 
for  the  mastery  in  such  encounters.  Serpents  alone 
conquer  by  the  steadiness  of  their  gaze.  My  friend 
looks  me  in  the  face  and  sees  me,  that  is  all. 

The  best  relations  were  at  once  established  between 
us  and  this  man,  and  though  few  words  were  spoken, 
he  could  not  conceal  a  visible  interest  in  us  and  our  ex 
cursion.  He  was  a  lover  of  the  higher  mathematics,  as 
we  found,  and  in  the  midst  of  some  vast  sunny  problem, 
when  we  overtook  him  and  whispered  our  conjectures. 
By  this  man  we  were  presented  with  the  freedom  of  the 
Merrimack.  We  now  felt  as  if  we  were  fairly  launched 
on  the  ocean-stream  of  our  voyage,  and  were  pleased  to 
find  that  our  boat  would  float  on  Merrimack  water.  We 
began  again  busily  to  put  in  practice  those  old  arts  of 
mowing,  steering,  and  paddling.  It  seemed  a  strange 
phenomenon  to  us  that  the  two  rivers  should  mingle 
their  waters  so  readily,  since  we  had  never  associated 
them  in  our  thoughts. 

As  we  glided  over  the  broad  bosom  of  the  Merrimack. 
between  Chelmsford  and  Dracut,  at  noon,  here  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  wide,  the  rattling  of  our  oars  was  echoed  over 
the  water  to  those  villages,  and  their  slight  sounds  to  us. 


88  A    WF.RK. 

Their  harbors  lay  as  smooth  and  fairy-like  as  the  Lida, 
or  S)  racuse,  or  Rhodes,  in  our  imagination,  while,  like 
some  strange  roving  craft,  we  flitted  past  what  seemed 
the  dwellings  of  noble  home-staying  men,  seemingly  as 
conspicuous  as  if  on  an  eminence,  or  floating  upon  a  tide 
which  came  up  to  those  villagers*  breasts.  At  a  third 
of  a  mile  over  the  water  we  heard  distinctly  some  chil 
dren  repeating  their  catechism  in  a  cottage  near  the 
shore,  while  in  the  broad  shallows  between,  a  herd  of 
cows  stood  lashing  their  sides,  and  waging  war  with  the 
flies. 

Two  hundred  years  ago  other  catechizing  than  th'.g 
was  going  on  here  ;  for  here  came  the  Sachem  Wanna- 
lancet,  and  his  people,  and  sometimes  Tahatawan,  our 
Concord  Sachem,  who  afterwards  had  a  church  at  home, 
to  catch  fish  at  the  falls  ;  and  here  also  came  John  Eliot, 
with  the  Bible  and  Catechism,  and  Baxter's  Call  to  the 
Unconverted,  and  other  tracts,  done  into  the  Massachu 
setts  tongue,  and  taught  them  Christianity  meanwhile. 
"  This  place,"  says  Gookin,  referring  to  Wamesit, 

"  being  an  ancient  and  capital  seat  of  Indians,  they  c^me  to 
fish  ;  and  this  good  man  takes  this  opportunity  to  spread  the 
net  of  the  gospel,  to  fish  for  their  souls."  —  "May  5th,  1674," 
he  continues,  "  according  to  our  usual  custom,  Mr.  Eliot  and 
myself  took  our  journey  to  Wamesit,  or  Pawtuckett ;  and 
arriving  there  that  evening,  Mr.  Eliot  preached  to  as  many 
of  them  as  could  be  got  together,  out  of  Matt.  xxii.  1  -  14, 
uhe  parable  of  the  marriage  of  the  king's  son.  We  met  at 
the  wigwam  of  one  called  Wannalancet,  about  two  milea 
from  the  town,  near  Pawtuckett  falls,  and  bordering  upor 
Merrimak  river.  This  person,  Wannalancet,  is  the  eldest 
ion  of  old  Pasaconaway,  the  chiefest  sachem  of  Pawtuckett 
He  is  a  sober  and  grave  person,  and  of  years,  between  fift? 
and  sixty.  He  hath  been  always  loving  and  friendly  to  th« 


SUNDAY.  89 

English."  As  yet,  however,  they  had  not  prevailed  on  him 
to  embrace  the  Christian  religion.  "  But  at  this  time,"  says 
Gookin,  "May  6,  1674,"  —  "after  some  deliberation  and 
serious  pause,  he  stood  up,  and  made  a  speech  to  this  effect : 
—  *  I  must  acknowledge  I  have,  all  my  days,  used  to  pass  in 
an  old  canoe,  (alluding  to  his  frequent  custom  to  pass  in  a 
canoe  upon  the  river,)  and  now  you  exhort  me  to  change  and 
leave  my  old  canoe,  and  embark  in  a  new  canoe,  to  which  I 
have  hitherto  been  unwilling  ;  but  now  I  yield  up  myself  to 
your  advice,  and  enter  into  a  new  canoe,  and  do  engage  to 
pray  to  God  hereafter.' "  One  "  Mr.  Kichard  Daniel,  a 
gentleman  that  lived  in  Billerica,"  who  with  other  "  persons 
of  quality  "  was  present,  "  desired  brother  Eliot  to  tell  the 
sachem  from  him,  that  it  may  be,  while  he  went  in  his  old 
canoe,  he  passed  in  a  quiet  stream  ;  but  the  end  thereof  was 
death  and  destruction  to  soul  and  body.  But  now  he  went 
into  a  new  canoe,  perhaps  he  would  meet  with  storms  and 
trials,  but  yet  he  should  be  encouraged  to  persevere,  for  the 
end  of  his  voyage  would  be  everlasting  rest."  —  "  Since  that 
time,  I  hear  this  sachem  doth  persevere,  and  is  a  constant 
and  diligent  hearer  of  God's  word,  and  sanctifieth  the  Sab 
bath,  though  he  doth  travel  to  Wamesit  meeting  every  Sab 
bath,  which  is  above  two  miles ;  and  though  sundry  of  his 
people  have  deserted  him,  since  he  subjected  to  the  gospel, 
yet  he  continues  and  persists."  —  Gookin' s  Hist.  Coll.  of  the 
Indians  in  New  England,  1674. 

Already,  as  appears  from  the  records,  "  At  a  General 
Court  held  at  Boston  in  New  England,  the  7th  of  the  first 
month,  1643-4."  —  "  Wassamequin,  Nashoonon,  Kutchama- 
quin,  Massaconomet,  and  Squaw  Sachem,  did  voluntarily 
submit  themselves  "  to  the  English  ;  and  among  other  things 
did  "  promise  to  be  willing  from  time  *o  time  to  be  instructed 
in  the  knowledge  of  God."  Being  asked  "  Not  to  do  any 
unnecessary  work  on  the  Sabbath  day,  especially  within  the 
gates  of  Christian  towns,"  they  answered,  "  It  is  easy  to  them  • 
they  have  not  much  to  do  on  any  day,  and  they  can  well  take 
their  rest  on  that  day."  —  '•  So,"  says  Winthrop,  in  i  a  Jour- 


90  A  WEEK. 

nal,  "  we  causing  them  to  understand  the  articles,  and  all  the 
ten  commandments  of  God,  and  they  freely  assenting  to  all, 
they  were  solemnly  received,  and  then  presented  the  Court 
with  twenty-six  fathom  more  of  wampom  ;  and  the  Court  gave 
each  of  them  a  coat  of  two  yards  of  cloth,  and  their  dinner 
p.nd  to  them  and  their  men,  every  of  them,  a  cup  of  sack  a* 
their  departure ;  BO  they  took  leave  and  went  away." 

What  journeyings  on  foot  and  on  horseback  through 
the  wilderness,  to  preach  the  Gospel  to  these  minks  and 
muskrats  !  who  first,  no  doubt,  listened  with  their  red 
ears  out  of  a  natural  hospitality  and  courtesy,  and  after 
ward  from  curiosity  or  even  interest,  till  at  length  there 
were  "  praying  Indians,"  and,  as  the  General  Court 
wrote  to  Cromwell,  the  "  work  is  brought  to  this  perfec 
tion,  that  some  of  the  Indians  themselves  can  pray  and 
prophesy  in  a  comfortable  manner." 

It  was  in  fact  an  old  battle  and  hunting  ground 
through  which  we  had  been  floating,  the  ancient  dwelling- 
place  of  a  race  of  hunters  and  warriors.  Their  weirs  of 
stone,  their  arrowheads  and  hatchets,  their  pestles,  and 
the  mortars  in  which  they  pounded  Indian  corn  before 
the  white  man  had  tasted  it,  lay  concealed  in  the  mud 
of  the  river  bottom.  Tradition  still  points  out  the  spots 
where  they  took  fish  in  the  greatest  numbers,  by  such 
arts  as  they  possessed.  It  is  a  rapid  story  the  historian 
will  have  to  put  together.  Miantonimo,  —  Winthrop,  — 
Webster.  Soon  he  comes  from  Montaup  to  Bunker 
Hill,  from  bear-skins,  parched  corn,  bows  and  arrows,  to 
tiled  roofs,  wheat-fields,  guns  and  swords.  Pawtucket 
and  Wamesit,  where  the  Indians  resorted  in  the  fishing 
season,  are  now  Lowell,  the  city  of  spindles  and  Man- 
Chester  of  America,  which  sends  its  cotton  cloth  round 
the  globe.  Even  we  youthful  voyagers  had  spent  t 


SUNDAY.  91 

part  of  our  lives  in  the  village  of  Chelmsford,  when  the 
present  city,  whose  bells  we  heard,  was  its  obscure  north 
district  only,  and  the  giant  weaver  was  not  yet  fairly 
born.  So  old  are  we  ;  so  young  is  it. 

We  were  thus  entering  the  State  of  New  Hampshire 
on  the  bosom  of  the  flood  formed  by  the  tribute  of  it8 
innumerable  valleys.  The  river  was  the  only  key  which 
could  unlock  its  maze,  presenting  its  hills  and  valleys, 
its  lakes  and  streams,  in  their  natural  order  and  position. 
The  MERRIMACK,  or  Sturgeon  River,  is  formed  by  the 
confluence  of  the  Pemigewasset,  which  rises  near  the 
Notch  of  the  White  Mountains,  and  the  Winnipiseogee, 
which  drains  the  lake  of  the  same  name,  signifying  "  The 
Smile  of  the  Great  Spirit."  From  their  junction  it  runs 
south  seventy-eight  miles  to  Massachusetts,  and  thence 
east  thirty-five  miles  to  the  sea.  I  have  traced  its 
stream  from  where  it  bubbles  out  of  the  rocks  of  the 
White  Mountains  above  the  clouds,  to  where  it  is  lost 
amid  the  salt  billows  of  the  ocean  on  Plum  Island  beach. 
At  first  it  comes  on  murmuring  to  itself  by  the  base  of 
stately  and  retired  mountains,  through  moist  primitive 
woods  whose  juices  it  receives,  where  the  bear  still 
Brinks  it,  and  the  cabins  of  settlers  are  far  between,  and 
there  are  few  to  cross  its  stream  ;  enjoying  in  solitude 
its  cascades  still  unknown  to  fame  ;  by  long  ranges  of 
mountains  of  Sandwich  and  of  Squam,  slumbering  like 
tumuli  of  Titans,  with  the  peaks  of  Moosehillock,  the 
Haystack,  and  Kearsarge  reflected  in  its  waters  ;  where 
the  maple  and  the  raspberry,  those  lovers  of  the  hills, 
flourish  amid  temperate  dews  ;  —  flowing  long  and  full 
%f  meaning,  but  untranslatable  a?  its  name  Pemigewasset, 
by  many  a  pastured  Pelion  ?.nd  Ossa,  where  unnamed 


92  A    WEi^K. 

muses  haunt,  tended  by  Oreads,  Dryads,  Naiads,  and 
receiving  the  tribute  of  many  an  untasted  Hippocrene 
There  are  earth,  air,  fire,  and  water,  —  very  well,  this  is 
water,  and  down  it  comes. 

Such  water  do  the  gods  distil, 
And  pour  down  every  hill 

For  their  New  England  men  ; 
A  draught  of  this  wild  nectar  bring, 
And  I  '11  not  taste  the  spring 

Of  Helicon  again. 

Falling  all  the  way,  and  yet  not  discouraged  by  the 
lowest  fall.  By  the  law  of  its  birth  never  to  become 
stagnant,  for  it  has  come  out  of  the  clouds,  and  down  the 
sides  of  precipices  worn  in  the  flood,  through  beaver- 
dams  broke  loose,  not  splitting  but  splicing  and  mending 
itself,  until  it  found  a  breathing-place  in  this  low  land. 
There  is  no  danger  now  that  the  sun  will  steal  it  back 
to  heaven  again  before  it  reach  the  sea,  for  it  has  a  war 
rant  even  to  recover  its  own  dews  into  its  bosom  again 
with  interest  at  every  eve. 

It  was  already  the  water  of  Squarn  and  Newfound 
Lake  and  Winnipiseogee,  and  White  Mountain  snow  dis 
solved,  on  which  we  were  floating,  and  Smith's  and 
Baker's  and  Mad  Rivers,  and  Nashua  and  Souhegan 
and  Piscataquoag,  and  Suncook  and  Soucook  and  Contoo- 
cook,  mingled  in  incalculable  proportions,  still  fluid,  yel 
lowish,  restless  all,  with  an  ancient,  ineradicable  inclina 
tion  to  the  sea. 

So  it  flows  on  down  by  Lowell  and  Haverhill,  at  which 
last  place  it  first  suffers  a  sea  change,  and  a  few  masts 
betray  the  vicinity  of  the  ocean.  Between  the  towns  of 
Amesbury  and  Newbury  it  is  a  broad  commercial  riven 
from  a  third  to  half  a  mile  in  width,  no  longer  skirted 
with  yellow  and  crumbling  banks,  but  backed  by  high 


SUNDAY*  98 

green  hills  and  pastures,  with  frequent  white  beaches  on 
which  the  fishermen  draw  up  their  nets.  I  have  passed 
down  this  portion  of  the  river  in  a  steamboat,  and  it 
was  a  pleasant  sight  to  watch  from  its  deck  the  fisher 
men  dragging  their  seines  on  the  distant  shore,  as  in 
pictures  of  a  foreign  strand.  At  intervals  you  may  meet 
with  a  schooner  laden  with  lumber,  standing  up  to 
Haverhill,  or  else  lying  at  anchor  or  aground,  waiting 
for  wind  or  tide ;  until,  at  last,  you  glide  under  the 
famous  Chain  Bridge,  and  are  .landed  at  Newburyport. 
Thus  she  who  at  first  was  "  poore  of  waters,  naked  of 
renowne,"  having  received  so  many  fair  tributaries,  as 
was  said  of  the  Forth, 

"Doth  grow  the  greater  still,  the  further  downe; 
Till  that  abounding  both  in  power  and  fame, 
She  long  doth  strive  to  give  the  sea  her  name"; 

or  if  not  her  name,  in  this  case,  at  least  the  impulse 
of  her  stream.  From  the  steeples  of  Newburyport  you 
may  review  this  river  stretching  far  up  into  the  coun 
try,  with  many  a  white  sail  glancing  over  it  like  an 
inland  sea,  and  behold,  as  one  wrote  who  was  born  OD 
its  head-waters,  "  Down  out  at  its  mouth,  the  dark  inky 
main  blending  with  the  blue  above.  Plum  Island,  its  sand 
ridges  scolloping  along  the  horizon  like  the  sea-serpent, 
and  the  distant  outline  broken  by  many  a  tall  ship,  lean 
ing,  still,  against  the  sky." 

Rising  at  an  equal  height  with  the  Connecticut,  the 
Merrimack  reaches  the  sea  by  a  course  only  half  as  long, 
and  hence  has  no  leisure  to  form  broad  and  fertile  mead 
ows,  like  the  former,  but  is  hurried  along  rapids,  and 
down  numerous  falls,  without  long  delay.  The  banks 
are  generally  steep  and  high,  with  a  narrow  interval 
reaching  back  to  the  hills,  which  is  only  rarely  or  par- 


J4  i    WEEK. 

tially  overflown  at  present,  and  is  much  valued  by  the 
farmers.  Between  Chelmsford  and  Concord,  in  New 
Hampshire,  it  varies  from  twenty  to  seventy-five  rods  in 
width.  It  is  probably  wider  than  it  was  formerly,  in 
many  places,  owing  to  the  trees  having  been  cut  down, 
and  the  consequent  wasting  away  of  its  banks.  The 
influence  of  the  Pawtucket  Dam  is  felt  as  far  up  as 
Cromwell's  Falls,  and  many  think  that  the  banks  are 
being  abraded  and  the  river  filled  up  again  by  this 
cause.  Like  all  our  rivers,  it  is  liable  to  freshets,  and 
the  Pemigewasset  has  been  known  to  rise  twenty-five 
feet  in  a  few  hours.  It  is  navigable  for  vessels  of  burden 
about  twenty  miles ;  for  canal-boats,  by  means  of  locks, 
as  far  as  Concord  in  New  Hampshire,  about  seventy-five 
miles  from  its  mouth ;  and  for  smaller  boats  to  Plymouth, 
one  hundred  and  thirteen  miles.  A  small  steamboat 
once  plied  between  Lowell  and  Nashua,  before  the  rail 
road  was  built,  and  one  now  runs  from  Newburyport  to 
Haverhill. 

Unfitted  to  some  extent  for  the  purposes  of  commerce 
by  the  sand-bar  at  its  mouth,  see  how  this  river  was 
devoted  from  the  first  to  the  service  of  manufactures. 
Issuing  from  the  iron  region  of  Franconia,  and  flowing 
through  still  uncut  forests,  by  inexhaustible  ledges  of 
granite,  with  Squam,  and  Wiunipiseogee,  and  Newfound, 
and  Massabesic  Lakes  for  its  mill-ponds,  it  falls  over  a 
succession  of  natural  dams,  where  it  has  been  offering  its 
privileges  in  vain  for  ages,  until  at  last  the  Yankee  race 
came  to  improve  them.  Standing  at  its  mouth,  look  up 
its  sparkling  stream  to  its  source,  —  a  silver  cascade 
which  falls  all  the  way  from  the  White  Mountains  to  the 
Bea,  —  and  behold  a  city  on  each  successive  plateau,  8 
busy  colony  of  human  beaver  around  every  fall.  Not 


SUNDAY.  95 

to  mention  Newburyport  and  Haverhill,  see  Lawrence, 
and  Lowell,  and  Nashua,  and  Manchester,  and  Concord, 
gleaming  one  above  the  other.  When  at  length  it  has 
escaped  from  under  the  last  of  the  factories,  it  has  a 
level  and  unmolested  passage  to  the  sea,  a  mere  waste 
water,  as  it  were,  bearing  little  with  it  but  its  fame ;  its 
pleasant  course  revealed  by  the  morning  fog  which 
hangs  over  it,  and  the  sails  of  the  few  small  vessels 
which  transact  the  commerce  of  Haverhill  and  New- 
buryport.  But  its  real  vessels  are  railroad  cars,  and  its 
true  and  main  stream,  flowing  by  an  iron  channel  farther 
south,  may  be  traced  by  a  long  line  of  vapor  amid  the 
hills,  which  no  morning  wind  ever  disperses,  to  where 
it  empties  into  the  sea  at  Boston.  This  side  is  the 
louder  murmur  now.  Instead  of  the  scream  of  a  fish- 
hawk  scaring  the  fishes,  is  heard  the  whistle  of  the 
steam-engine,  arousing  a  country  to  its  progress. 

This  river  too  was  at  length  discovered  by  the  white 
man,  "  trending  up  into  the  land,"  he  knew  not  how  far, 
possibly  an  inlet  to  the  South  Sea.  Its  valley,  as  far 
as  the  Winnipiseogee,  was  first  surveyed  in  1 652.  The 
first  settlers  of  Massachusetts  supposed  that  the  Con 
necticut,  in  one  part  of  its  course,  ran  northwest,  "so 
near  the  great  lake  as  the  Indians  do  pass  their  canoes 
into  it  over  land."  From  which  lake  and  the  "  hideous 
swamps  "  about  it,  as  they  supposed,  came  all  the  beaver 
that  was  traded  between  Virginia  and  Canada,  —  and 
the  Potomac  was  thought  to  come  out  of  or  from  very 
near  it.  Afterward  the  Connecticut  came  so  near  the 
course  of  the  Merrimack  that,  with  a  little  pains,  they 
expected  to  divert  the  current  of  the  trade  into  the  latter 
river,  and  its  profits  from  their  Dutch  neighbors  into 
their  own  pockets. 


96  A     WEEK. 

Unlike  the  Concord,  the  Merrimack  is  not  a  dead  but 
a  living  stream,  though  it  has  less  life  within  its  waters 
and  on  its  banks.  It  has  a  swift  current,  and,  in  this 
part  of  its  course,  a  clayey  bottom,  almost  no  weeds,  and 
comparatively  few  fishes.  We  looked  down  into  its 
yellow  water  with  the  more  curiosity,  who  were  accus 
tomed  to  the  Nile-like  blackness  of  the  former  river. 
Shad  and  alewives  are  taken  here  in  their  season,  but 
salmon,  though  at  one  time  more  numerous  than  shad, 
are  now  more  rare.  Bass,  also,  are  taken  occasionally ; 
but  locks  and  dams  have  proved  more  or  less  destruc 
tive  to  the  fisheries.  The  shad  make  their  appearance 
early  in  May,  at  the  same  time  with  the  blossoms  of  the 
pyrus,  one  of  the  most  conspicuous  early  flowers,  which 
is  for  this  reason  called  the  shad-blossom.  An  insect 
called  the  shad-fly  also  appears  at  the  same  time,  cover 
ing  the  houses  and  fences.  We  are  told  that  "  their 
greatest  run  is  when  the  apple-trees  are  in  full  blossom. 
The  old  shad  return  in  August ;  the  young,  three  or 
four  inches  long,  in  September.  These  are  very  fond 
of  flies."  A  rather  picturesque  and  luxurious  mode  of 
fishing  was  formerly  practised  on  the  Connecticut,  at  Bel 
lows  Falls,  where  a  large  rock  divides  the  stream.  "  On 
the  steep  sides  of  the  island  rock,"  says  Belknap,  "  hang 
several  arm-chairs,  fastened  to  ladders,  and  secured  by  a 
counterpoise,  in  which  fishermen  sit  to  catch  salmon  and 
Bhad  with  dipping  nets."  The  remains  of  Indian  weirs, 
made  of  large  stones,  are  still  to  be  seen  in  the  Winni- 
piseogee,  one  of  the  head-waters  of  this  river. 

It  cannot  but  effect  our  philosophy  favorably  to  be 
reminded  of  these  shoals  of  migratory  fishes,  of  salmon, 
iliad,  alewives,  marsh-bankers,  and  others,  which  pene 
trate   up  the   innumerable   rivers  of  our  coast  in   the 


SUNDAY.  97 

Bpring,  even  to  the  interior  lakes,  their  scales  gleaming 
in  the  sun ;  and  again,  of  the  fry  which  in  still  greater 
numbers  wend  their  way  downward  to  the  sea.  "  And 
is  it  not  pretty  sport,"  wrote  Captain  John  Smith,  who 
was  on  this  coast  as  early  as  1614,  "  to  pull  up  twopence, 
sixpence,  and  twelvepence,  as  fast  as  you  can  haul  and 
veer  a  line  ? "  — "  And  what  sport  doth  yield  a  more 
pleasing  content,  and  less  hurt  or  charge,  than  angling 
with  a  hook,  and  crossing  the  sweet  air  from  isle  to 
isle,  over  the  silent  streams  of  a  calm  sea." 

On  the  sandy  shore,  opposite  the  Glass-house  village 
in  Chelmsford,  at  the  Great  Bend  where  we  landed  to 
rest  us  and  gather  a  few  wild  plums,  we  discovered  the 
Campanula  rotundifolia,  a  new  flower  to  us,  the  harebell 
of  the  poets,  which  is  common  to  both  hemispheres, 
growing  close  to  the  water.  Here,  in  the  shady  branches 
of  an  apple-tree  on  the  sand,  we  took  our  nooning,  where 
there  was  not  a  zephyr  to  disturb  the  repose  of  this  glo 
rious  Sabbath  day,  and  we  reflected  serenely  on  the  long 
past  and  successful  labors  of  Latona. 

"  So  silent  is  the  cessile  air, 
That  every  cry  and  call, 
The  hills,  and  dales,  and  forest  fair 
Again  repeats  them  all. 

"  The  herds  beneath  some  leafy  trees, 

Amidst  the  flowers  they  lie, 

The  stable  ships  upon  the  seas 

Tend  up  their  saiis  to  dry." 

As  we  thus  rested  in  the  shade,  or  rowed  leisurely 
along,  we  had  recourse,  frooi  time  .to  time,  to  the  Gazet 
teer,  which  was  our  Navigator,  and  from  its  bald  natural 
facts  extracted  the  pleasure  of  poetry.  Beaver  River 

5  G 


08  A    WEEK. 

comes  in  a  little  lower  down,  draining  the  meadows  ol* 
Pelham,  Windham,  and  Londonderry.  The  Scotch-Irish 
settlers  of  the  latter  town,  according  to  this  authority, 
were  the  first  to  introduce  the  potato  into  New  England, 
as  well  as  the  manufacture  of  linen  cloth. 

Everything  that  is  printed  and  bound  in  a  book  con 
tains  some  echo  at  least  of  the  best  that  is  in  literature. 
Indeed,  the  best  books  have  a  use,  like  sticks  and  stones, 
which  is  above  or  beside  their  design,  not  anticipated  in 
the  preface,  nor  concluded  in  the  appendix.  Even  Vir 
gil's  poetry  serves  a  very  different  use  to  me  to-day 
from  what  it  did  to  his  contemporaries.  It  has  often  an 
acquired  and  accidental  value  merely,  proving  that  man 
is  still  man  in  the  world.  It  is  pleasant  to  meet  with 
such  still  lines  as, 

"Jam  laeto  turgent  in  palmito  gemmae  " ; 
Now  the  buds  swell  on  the  joyful  stem. 

"  Strata  Jacent  passim  sua  quxque  sub  arbore  poma  " ; 
The  apples  lie  scattered  everywhere,  each  under  its  tree. 

In  an  ancient  and  dead  language,  any  recognition  of 
living  nature  attracts  us.  These  are  such  sentences  as 
were  written  while  grass  grew  and  water  ran.  It  is  no 
small  recommendation  when  a  book  will  stand  the  test 
of  mere  unobstructed  sunshine  and  daylight. 

What  would  we  not  give  for  some  great  poem  to  read 
now,  which  would  be  in  harmony  with  the  scenery, — 
for  if  men  read  aright,  methinks  they  would  never  read 
anything  but  poems.  No  history  nor  philosophy  can 
supply  their  place. 

The  wisest  definition  of  poetry  the  poet  will  instantly 
prove  false  by  setting  aside  its  requisitions.  We  can. 
therefore,  publish  only  our  advertisement  of  it. 


SUNDAY.  99 

There  is  no  doubt  that  the  loftiest  written  wisdom  is 
either  rhymed,  or  in  some  way  musically  measured,  —  is, 
in  form  as  well  as  substance,  poetry;  and  a  volume 
which  should  contain  the  condensed  wisdom  of  mankind 
need  not  have  one  rhythmless  line. 

Yet  poetry,  though  the  last  and  finest  result,  is  a 
natural  fruit.  As  naturally  as  the  oak  bears  an  acorn, 
and  the  vine  a  gourd,  man  bears  a  poem,  either  spoken 
or  done.  It  is  the  chief  and  most  memorable  success, 
for  history  is  but  a  prose  narrative  of  poetic  deeds. 
What  else  have  the  Hindoos,  the  Persians,  the  Baby 
lonians,  the  Egyptians  done,  that  can  be  told  ?  It  is  the 
simplest  relation  of  phenomena,  and  describes  the  com 
monest  sensations  with  more  truth  than  science  does, 
and  the  latter  at  a  distance  slowly,  mimics  its  style  and 
methods.  The  poet  sings  how  the  blood  flows  in  his 
veins.  He  performs  his  functions,  and  is  so  well  that 
he  needs  such  stimulus  to  sing  only  as  plants  to  put 
forth  leaves  and  blossoms.  He  would  strive  in  vain  to 
modulate  the  remote  and  transient  music  which  he 
sometimes  hears,  since  his  song  is  a  vital  function  like 
breathing,  and  an  integral  result  like  weight.  It  is  not 
the  overflowing  of  life  but  its  subsidence  rather,  and  is 
drawn  from  under  the  feet  of  the  poet.  It  is  enough  if 
Homer  but  say  the  sun  sets.  He  is  as  serene  as  nature, 
and  we  can  hardly  detect  the  enthusiasm  of  the  bard. 
It  is  as  if  nature  spoke.  He  presents  to  us  the  simplest 
pictures  of  human  life,  so  the  child  itself  can  understand 
them,  and  the  man  must  not  think  twice  to  appreciate 
his  naturalness.  Each  reader  discovers  for  himself  that^ 
with  respect  to  the  simpler  features  of  nature,  succeed 
ing  poets  have  done  little  else  than  copy  his  similes. 
His  more  memorable  passages  are  as  naturally  bright  as 


100  A    WEEK. 

gleams  ot  sunshine  in  misty  weather.  Nature  furnishes 
him  not  only  with  words,  but  with  stereotyped  lines  and 
sentences  from  her  mint. 

*'  As  from  the  clouds  appears  the  full  moon, 
All  shining,  and  then  again  it  goes  behind  the  shadowy  clouds, 
So  Hector,  at  one  time  appeared  among  the  foremost, 
And  at  another  in  the  rear,  commanding;  and  all  with  brass 
He  shone,  like  to  the  lightning  of  aegis-bearing  Zeus." 

He  conveys  the  least  information,  even  the  hour  of  the 
day,  with  such  magnificence  and  vast  expense  of  natural 
imagery,  as  if  it  were  a  message  from  the  gods. 

"  While  it  was  dawn,  and  sacred  day  was  advancing, 
For  that  space  the  weapons  of  both  flew  fast,  and  the  people  ^ell; 
But  when  now  the  woodcutter  was  preparing  his  morning  meal, 
In  the  recesses  of  the  mountain,  and  had  wearied  his  hands 
With  cutting  lofty  trees,  and  satiety  came  to  his  mind, 
And  the  desire  of  sweet  food  took  possession  of  his  thoughts; 
Then  the  Danaans,  by  their  valor,  broke  the  phalanxes, 
Shouting  to  their  companions  from  rank  to  rank." 

When  the  army  of  the  Trojans  passed  the  night  under 
arms,  keeping  watch  lest  the  enemy  should  re-embark 
under  cover  of  the  dark, 

"  They,  thinking  great  things,  upon  the  neutral  ground  of  war 
Sat  all  the  night;  and  many  fires  burned  for  them. 
As  when  in  the  heavens  the  stars  round  the  bright  moon 
Appear  beautiful,  and  the  air  is  without  wind; 
And  all  the  heights,  and  the  extreme  summits, 
And  the  wooded  sides  of  the  mountains  appear;  and  from  the  heav« 

ens  an  infinite  ether  is  diffused, 

And  all  the  stars  are  seen;  and  the  shepherd  rejoices  in  his  heart; 
So  between  the  ships  and  the  streams  of  Xanthus 
Appeared  the  fires  of  the  Trojans  before  Ilium. 
A  thousand  fires  burned  on  the  plain;  and  by  each 
Sat  fitly,  in  the  light  of  the  blazing  fire; 
And  horses  eating  white  barley  and  corn, 
Standing  by  th«  chariots,  awaited  fair-throned  Aurora." 

The  u  white-armed  goddess  Juno,"  sent  by  the  Fathe. 
uf  g^'ls  and  men  for  Iris  and  Apollo, 


SUNDAY.  101 

11  Went  down  the  Idaea.i  mountains  to  far  Olympus, 
As  when  the  mind  of  a  man,  who  has  come  over  much  earth, 
Sallies  forth,  and  hs  reflects  with  rapid  thoughts, 
There  was  I,  and  there,  and  remembers  many  things; 
So  swiftly  the  august  Juno  hastening  flew  through  the  air, 
And  came  to  high  Olympus." 

His  scenery  is  always  true,  and  not  invented.      He 
does   not   leap  in   imagination   from   Asia   to    Greece, 

through  mid  air, 

eVeij)  /iciXa  TroXXa 
*Qvpfd  T€  (TKtoeWa,  6a\d(T(ra  re 

for  there  are  very  many 
Shady  mountains  and  resounding  seas  between. 

If  his  messengers  repair  but  to  the  tent  of  Achilles,  we 
do  not  wonder  how  they  got  there,  but  accompany  them 
step  by  step  along  the  shore  of  the  resounding  sea. 
Nestor's  account  of  the  march  of  the  Pylians  against 
the  Epeians  is  extremely  lifelike  :  — 

"  Then  rose  up  to  them  sweet-worded  Nestor,  the  shrill  orator  of  the 

Pylians, 
And  words  sweeter  than  honey  flowed  from  his  tongue." 

This  time,  however,  he  addresses  Patroclus  alone :  "  A 
certain  river,  Minyas  by  name,  leaps  seaward  near 
to  Arene,  where  we  Pylians  wait  the  dawn,  both  horse 
and  foot.  Thence  with  all  haste  we  sped  us  on  the 
morrow  ere  't  was  noonday,  accoutred  for  the  fight,  even 
to  Alpheus's  sacred  source,"  &c.  We  fancy  that  we  hear 
the  subdued  murmuring  of  the  Minyas  discharging  its 
waters  into  the  main  the  livelong  night,  and  the  hollow 
sound  of  the  waves  breaking  on  the  shore,  —  until  at 
length  we  are  cheered  at  the  close  of  a  toilsome  march 
by  the  gurgling  fountains  of  Alpheus. 

There  are  few  books  which  are  fit  to  b^  remembered 
in  our  wisest  hours,  but  the  Iliad  is  brightest  in  the 


l02  A    WKKK. 

serencst  days,  and  embodies  still  all  the  sunlight  thf,t 
fell  on  Asia  Minor.  No  modern  joy  or  ecstasy  of  ours 
can  lower  its  height  or  dim  its  lustre,  but  there  it  lies  in 
the  east  of  literature,  as  it  were  the  earliest  and  latest 
production  of  the  mind.  The  ruins  of  Egypt  oppress  and 
stifle  us  with  their  dust,  foulness  preserved  in  cassia  and 
pitch,  and  swathed  in  linen  ;  the  death  of  that  which 
never  lived.  But  the  rays  of  Greek  poetry  struggle 
down  to  us,  and  mingle  with  the  sunbeams  of  the  recent 
day.  The  statue  of  Memnon  is  cast  down,  but  the  shaft 
of  the  Iliad  still  meets  the  sun  in  his  rising. 

"  Homer  is  gone;  and  where  is  Jove  ?  and  where 
The  rival  cities  seven?     His  song  outlives 
Time,  tower,  and  god,  —  all  that  then  was,  save  Heaven." 

So  too,  no  doubt,  Homer  had  his  Homer,  and  Orpheus 
his  Orpheus,  in  the  dim  antiquity  which  preceded  them. 
The  mythological  system  of  the  ancients,  and  it  is  still 
the  mythology  of  the  moderns,  the  poem  of  mankind,  in 
terwoven  so  wonderfully  with  their  astronomy,  and 
matching  in  grandeur  and  harmony  the  architecture  of 
the  heavens  themselves,  seems  to  point  to  a  time  when  a 
mightier  genius  inhabited  the  earth.  But,  after  all,  man 
is  the  great  poet,  and  not  Homer  nor  Shakespeare ;  and 
our  language  itself,  and  the  common  arts  of  life,  are  his 
work.  Poetry  is  so  universally  true  and  independent  of 
experience,  that  it  does  not  need  any  particular  biography 
to  illustrate  it,  but  we  refer  it  sooner  or  later  to  some 
Orpheus  or  Linus,  and  after  ages  to  the  genius  of  human 
ity  and  the  gods  themselves. 

It  would  be  worth  the  while  to  select  our  reading,  for 
books  are  the  society  we  keep  ;  to  read  only  the  serenely 
true ;  ntver  statistics,  nor  fiction,  nor  news,  nor  reports 


SUNDAY.  103 

nor  periodicals,  but  only  great  poems,  and  when  they 
failed,  read  them  again,  or  perchance  write  more.  In 
stead  of  other  sacrifice,  we  might  offer  up  our  perfect 
(reXeta)  thoughts  to  the  gods  daily,  in  hymns  or  psalms. 
For  we  should  be  at  the  helm  at  least  once  a  day.  The 
whole  of  the  day  should  not  be  daytime  ;  there  should 
be  one  hour,  if  no  more,  which  the  day  did  not  bring 
forth.  Scholars  are  wont  to  sell  their  birthright  for  a 
mess  of  learning.  But  is  it  necessary  to  know  what  the 
speculator  prints,  or  the  thoughtless  study,  or  the  idle 
read,  the  literature  of  the  Russians  and  the  Chinese,  or 
even  French  philosophy  and  much  of  German  criticism. 
Read  the  best  books  first,  or  you  may  not  have  a  chance 
to  read  them  at  all.  "  There  are  the  worshippers  with 
offerings,  and  the  worshippers  with  mortifications  ;  and 
again  the-  worshippers  with  enthusiastic  devotion ;  so 
there  are  those  the  wisdom  of  whose  reading  is  their 
worship,  men  of  subdued  passions  and  severe  manners  ; 
—  This  world  is  not  for  him  who  doth  not  worship  ;  and 
where,  O  Arjoon,  is  there  another  ?  "  Certainly,  we  do 
not  need  to  be  soothed  and  entertained  always  like  chil 
dren.  He  who  resorts  to  the  easy  novel,  because  he  is 
.anguid,  does  no  better  than  if  he  took  a  nap.  The  front 
aspect  of  great  thoughts  can  only  be  enjoyed  by  those 
who  stand  on  the  side  whence  they  arrive.  Books,  not 
which  afford  us  a  cowering  enjoyment,  but  in  which  each 
thought  is  of  unusual  daring  ;  such  as  an  idle  man  cannot 
read,  and  a  timid  one  would  not  be  entertained  by,  which 
even  make  us  dangerous  to  existing  institutions,  —  such 
call  I  good  books. 

All  that  are  printed  and  bound  are  not  books ;  they 
do  not  necessarily  belong  to  letters,  but  are  oftener  to  be 
•anked  with  the  other  luxuries  and  appendages  of  civil- 


104  A    WEEK. 

ized  life.  Base  wares  are  palmed  off  under  a  thousand 
disguises.  "  The  way  to  trade,"  as  a  pedler  once  told 
me,  "  is  to  put  it  right  through"  no  matter  what  it  is, 
anything  that  is  agreed  on. 

"  You  grov'liug  worldlings,  you  whose  wisdom  trades 
Where  light  ne'er  shot  his  golden  ray." 

By  dint  of  able  writing  and  pen-craft,  books  are  cun 
ningly  compiled,  and  have  their  run  and  success  even 
among  the  learned,  as  if  they  were  the  result  of  a  new 
man's  thinking,  and  their  birth  were  attended  with  some 
natural  throes.  But  in  a  little  while  their  covers  fall 
off,  for  no  binding  will  avail,  and  it  appears  that  they 
are  not  Books  or  Bibles  at  all.  There  are  new  and  pat 
ented  inventions  in  this  shape,  purporting  to  be  for  the 
elevation  of  the  race,  which  many  a  pure  scholar  and 
genius  who  has  learned  to  read  is  for  a  moment  deceived 
by,  and  finds  himself  reading  a  horse-rake,  or  spinning- 
jenny,  or  wooden  nutmeg,  or  oak-leaf  cigar,  or  steam- 
power  press,  or  kitchen  range,  perchance,  when  he  was 

seeking  serene  and  biblical  truths. 

"  Merchants,  arise, 
And  mingle  conscience  with  your  merchandise." 

Paper  is  cheap,  and  authors  need  not  now  erase  one 
book  before  they  write  another.  Instead  of  cultivating 
the  earth  for  wheat  and  potatoes,  they  cultivate  litera 
ture,  and  fill  a  place  in  the  Republic  of  Letters.  Or 
they  would  fain  write  for  fame  merely,  as  others  actually 
raise  crops  of  grain  to  be  distilled  into  brandy.  Books 
are  for  the  most  part  wilfully  and  hastily  written,  as 
parts  of  a  system,  to  supply  a  want  real  or  imagined. 
Books  of  natural  history  aim  commonly  to  be  hasty 
schedules,  or  inventories  of  God's  property,  by  some 
clerk.  They  do  not  in  the  least  teach  the  divine  vie* 


SUNDAY.  105 

nf  nature,  but  the  popular  view,  or  rather  the  popular 
method  of  studying  nature,  and  make  haste  to  conduct 
the  persevering  pupil  only  into  that  dilemma  where  the 
professors  always  dwell. 

*'  To  Athens  gowned  he  goes,  and  from  that  school 
Returns  unsped,  a  more  instructed  fool." 

They  teach  the  elements  really  of  ignorance,  not  of 
knowledge,  for,  to  speak  deliberately  and  in  view  of  the 
highest  truths,  it  is  not  easy  to  distinguish  elementary 
knowledge.  There  is  a  chasm  between  knowledge  and 
ignorance  which  the  arches  of  science  can  never  span, 
A  book  should  contain  pure  discoveries,  glimpses  of  terra 
jirma,  though  by  shipwrecked  mariners,  and  not  the  art 
of  navigation  by  those  who  have  never  been  out  of  sight 
of  land.  They  must  not  yield  wheat  and  potatoes,  but 
must  themselves  be  the  unconstrained  and  natural  har 
vest  of  their  author's  lives. 

"  What  I  have  learned  is  mine  ;  I  've  had  my  thought, 
And  me  the  Muses  noble  truths  have  taught." 

We  do  not  learn  much  from  learned  books,  but  from 
true,  sincere,  human  books,  from  frank  and  honest  biog 
raphies.  The  life  of  a  good  man  will  hardly  improve 
us  more  than  the  life  of  a  freebooter,  for  the  inevitable 
laws  appear  as  plainly  in  the  infringement  as  in  the  ob 
servance,  and  our  lives  are  sustained  by  a  nearly  equal 
expense  of  virtue  of  some  kind.  The  decaying  tree, 
while  yet  it  lives,  demands  sun,  wind,  and  rain  no  less 
than  the  green  one.  It  secretes  sap  and  performs  the 
functions  of  health.  If  we  choose,  we  may  study  the 
alburnum  only.  The  gnarled  stump  has  as  tender  a  bud 
as  the  sapling. 

At  least  let  us  have  healthy  books,  a  stout  horse-rake 
5* 


106  A    WEKK. 

*r  a  kitchen  range  which  is  not  cracked.  Let  not  the 
poet  shed  tears  only  for  the  public  weal.  He  should  be 
as  vigorous  as  a  sugar-maple,  with  sap  enough  to  main 
tain  his  own  verdure,  beside  what  runs  into  the  troughs, 
and  not  like  a  vine,  which  being  cut  in  the  spring  bears 
no  fruit,  but  bleeds  to  death  in  the  endeavor  to  heal  its 
wounds.  The  poet  is  he  that  hath  fat  enough,  like  bears 
and  marmots,  to  suck  his  claws  all  winter.  He  hibernates 
in  this  world,  and  feeds  on  his  own  marrow.  We  love 
to  think  in  winter,  as  we  walk  over  the  snowy  pastures, 
of  those  happy  dreamers  that  lie  under  the  sod,  of  dor 
mice  and  all  that  race  of  dormant  creatures,  which  have 
such  a  superfluity  of  life  enveloped  in  thick  folds  of  fur, 
impervious  to  cold.  Alas,  the  poet  too  is,  in  one  sense, 
a  sort  of  dormouse  gone  into  winter  quarters  of  deep  and 
serene  thoughts,  insensible  to  surrounding  circumstances  ; 
his  words  are  the  relation  of  his  oldest  and  finest  memory, 
a  wisdom  drawn  from  the  remotest  experience.  Other 
men  lead  a  starved  existence,  meanwhile,  like  hawks, 
that  would  fain  keep  on  the  wing,  and  trust  to  pick  up  a 
sparrow  now  and  then. 

There  are  already  essays  and  poems,  the  growth  of 
vhis  land,  which  are  not  in  vain,  all  which,  however,  we 
could  conveniently  have  stowed  in  the  till  of  our  chest. 
If  the  gods  permitted  their  own  inspiration  to  be  breathed 
in  vain,  these  might  be  overlooked  in  the  crowd,  but  the 
accents  of  truth  are  as  sure  to  be  heard  at  last  on  earth 
as  in  heaven.  They  already  seem  ancient,  and  in  some 
measure  have  lost  the  traces  of  their  modern  birth.  Here 
are  they  who 

"  ask  for  that  which  is  our  whale  life's  light, 
For  the  perpetual,  true  and  cleur  iusig^t" 


107 

I  remember  a  few  sentences  which  spring  like  the  sward 
in  its  native  pasture,  where  its  roots  were  never  disturbed, 
and  not  as  if  spread  over  a  sandy  embankment ;  answer 
ing  to  the  poet's  prayer, 

"  Let  us  set  so  just 

A  rate  on  knowledge,  that  the  world  may  trust 
The  poet's  sentence,  and  not  still  aver 
Each  art  is  to  itself  a  flatterer." 

But,  above  all,  in  our  native  port,  did  we  not  frequent 
the  peaceful  games  of  the  Lyceum,  from  which  a  new  era 
will  be  dated  to  New  England,  as  from  the  games  of 
Greece.  For  if  Herodotus  carried  his  history  to  Olympia 
to  read,  after  the  cestus  and  the  race,  have  we  not  heard 
such  histories  recited  there,  which  since  our  countrymen 
have  read,  as  made  Greece  sometimes  to  be  forgotten  ? 
—  Philosophy,  too,  has  there  her  grove  and  portico,  not 
wholly  unfrequented  in  these  days. 

Lately  the  victor,  whom  all  Pindars  praised,  has  won 
another  palm,  contending  with 

"  Olympian  bards  who  sung 
Divine  ideas  below, 
Which  always  find  us  young, 
And  always  keep  us  so." 

What  earth  or  sea,  mountain  or  stream,  or  Muses'  spring 
or  grove,  is  safe  from  his  all-searching  ardent  eye,  who 
drives  off  Phoebus'  beaten  track,  visits  unwonted  zones, 
makes  the  gelid  Hyperboreans  glow,  and  the  old  polar 
serpent  writhe,  and  many  a  Nile  flow  back  and  hide  his 
bead! 

That  Phaeton  of  our  day, 

Who  'd  make  another  milky  way, 

And  burn  the  world  up  with  his  ray 

By  us  an  undisputed  seer,  — 

Who  'd  drive  his  flaming  car  so  near 

Unto  our  shuddering  mortal  sphere, 


108  A     WKEK. 

Disgracing  all  our  slender  worth, 
And  scorching  up  the  living  earth, 
To  prove  his  heavenly  birth. 

The  silver  spokes,  the  golden  tire, 
Are  glowing  with  unwonted  fire, 
And  ever  nigher  roll  and  nigher; 

The  pins  and  axle  melted  are, 

The  silver  radii  fly  afar, 

Ah,  he  will  spoil  his  Father's  car! 

Who  let  him  have  the  steeds  he  cannot  steer? 
Henceforth  the  sun  will  not  shine  for  a  year; 
And  we  shall  Ethiops  all  appear. 

From  his 

"lips  of  cunning  fell 
The  thrilling  Delphic  oracle." 

And  yet,  sometimes, 

We  should  not  mind  if  on  our  ear  there  fell 
Some  less  of  cunning,  more  of  oracle. 

It  is  Apollo  shining  in  your  face.  O  rare  Contempo 
rary,  let  us  have  far-off  heats.  Give  Us  the  subtler,  the 
heavenlier  though  fleeting  beauty,  which  passes  through 
and  through,  and  dwells  not  in  the  verse ;  even  pure 
water,  which  but  reflects  those  tints  which  wine  wears  in 
its  grain.  Let  epic  trade-winds  blow,  and  cease  this 
waltz  of  inspirations.  Let  us  oftener  feel  even  the  gen 
tle  southwest  wind  upon  our  cheeks  blowing  from  the 
Indian's  heaven.  What  though  we  lose  a  thousand  me* 
teors  from  the  sky,  if  skyey  depths,  if  star-dust  and  un- 
dissolvable  nebula  remain  ?  What  though  we  lose  a 
thousand  wise  responses  of  the  oracle,  if  we  may  have 
instead  some  natural  acres  of  Ionian  earth  ? 
Though  we  know  well, 

"  That  *C  is  not  in  the  power  of  kings  [or  presidents!  to  raise 
A  spirit  for  verse  that  i.°  "ot  h/>rn  thereto, 
Nor  are  they  born  in  every  prince's  days"; 


8'  flSDAY.  1  09 

yet  spite  of  all  they  sang  in  praise  of  they*  "Eliza's 
reign,"  we  have  evidence  that  poets  may  be  born  and 
sing  in  our  day,  in  the  presidency  of  James  K.  Polk, 

"And  that  the  utmost  powers  of  English  rhyme," 
Were  not  "  within  her  peaceful  reign  confined." 

The  prophecy  of  the  poet  Daniel  is  already  how  much 
more  than  fulfilled ! 

"  And  who  in  time  knows  whither  we  may  vent 
The  treasure  of  our  tongue?     To  what  strange  shores 
This  gain  of  our  best  glory  shall  be  sent, 
T'  enrich  unknowing  nations  with  our  stores? 
What  worlds  in  th'  yet  unformed  Occident, 
May  come  refined  with  the  accents  that  are  ours." 

Enough  has  been  said  in  these  days  of  the  charm  of 
fluent  writing.  We  hear  it  complained  of  some  works  of 
genius,  that  they  have  fine  thoughts,  but  are  irregular 
and  have  no  flow.  But  even  the  mountain  peaks  in  the 
horizon  are,  to  the  eye  of  science,  parts  of  one  range. 
We  should  consider  that  the  flow  of  thought  is  more  like 
a  tidal  wave  than  a  prone  river,  and  is  the  result  of  a 
celestial  influence,  not  of  any  declivity  in  its  channel. 
The  river  flows  because  it  runs  down  hill,  and  flows 
the  faster  the  faster  it  descends.  The  reader  who  expects 
to  float  down  stream  for  the  whole  voyage,  may  well 
complain  of  nauseating  swells  and  choppings  of  the  sea 
when  his  frail  shore-craft  gets  amidst  the  billows  of  the 
ocean  stream,  which  flows  as  much  to  sun  and  moon  as 
lesser  streams  to  it.  But  if  we  would  appreciate'  the  flow 
that  is  in  these  books,  we  must  expect  to  feel  it  rise  from 
the  page  like  an  exhalation,  and  wash  away  our  critical 
brains  like  burr  millstones,  flowing  to  higher  levels  above 
and  behind  ourselves.  There  is  many  a  book  which 
ripples  on  like  a  fresnet,  and  flows  as  glibly  as  a  mill- 


116  A    WEEK. 

itream  sucking  under  a  causeway ;  and  when  their  au 
thors  are  in  the  full  tide  of  their  discourse,  Pythagoras 
and  Plato  and  Jamblichus  halt  beside  them.  Their 
long,  stringy,  eliray  sentences  are  of  that  consistency  that 
they  naturally  flow  and  run  together.  They  read  as  if 
written  for  military  men,  for  men  of  business,  there  is 
such  a  despatch  in  them.  Compared  with  these,  the 
grave  thinkers  and  philosophers  seem  not  to  have  got 
their  swaddling-clothes  off;  they  are  slower  than  a  Ro 
man  army  in  its  march,  the  rear  camping  to-night  where 
the  van  camped  last  night  The  wise  Jamblichus  eddies 
and  gleams  like  a  watery  slough. 

"  How  many  thousands  never  heard  the  name 
Of  Sidney,  or  of  Spenser,  or  their  books? 
And  yet  brave  fellows,  and  presume  of  fame, 
And  seem  to  bear  down  all  the  world  with  looks." 

The  ready  writer  seizes  the  pen,  and  shouts,  Forward ! 
Alamo  and  Fanning!  and  after  rolls  the  tide  of  war. 
The  very  walls  and  fences  seem  to  travel.  But  the 
most  rapid  trot  is  no  flow  after  all ;  and  thither,  reader 
you  and  I,  at  least,  will  not  follow. 

A  perfectly  healthy  sentence,  it  is  true,  is  extremely 
rare.  For  the  most  part  we  miss  the  hue  and  fragrance 
of  the  thought ;  as  if  we  could  be  satisfied  with  the  dews 
of  the  morning  or  evening  without  their  colors,  or  the 
heavens  without  their  azure.  The  most  attractive  sen- 
tences  are,  perhaps,  not  the  wisest,  but  the  surest  and 
roundest.  They  are  spoken  firmly  and  conclusively,  as 
if  the  speaker  had  a  right  to  know  what  he  says,  and  if 
not  wise,  they  have  at  least  been  well  learned.  Sir  Wal 
ter  Raleigh  might  well  be  studied  if  only  for  the  excel 
lence  of  his  style,  for  he  is  remarkable  in  the  midst  of  sc 
many  masters.  There  is  a  natural  emphasis  in  his  style 


SUNDAY.  Ill 

like  a  man's  tread,  and  a  breathing  space  between  the 
sentences,  which  the  best  of  modern  writing  does  not 
furnish.  His  chapters  are  like  English  parks,  or  say 
rather  like  a  Western  forest,  where  the  larger  growth 
keeps  down  the  underwood,  and  one  may  ride  on  horse 
back  through  the  openings.  All  the  distinguished  writ 
ers  of  that  period  possess  a  greater  vigor  and  natural 
ness  than  the  more  modern,  —  for  it  is  allowed  to  slander 
our  own  time,  —  and  when  we  read  a  quotation  from  one 
of  them  in  the  midst  of  a  modern  author,  we  seem  to 
have  come  suddenly  upon  a  greener  ground,  a  greater 
depth  and  strength  of  soil.  It  is  as  if  a  green  bough 
were  laid  across  the  page,  and  we  are  refreshed  as  by 
the  sight  of  fresh  grass  in  midwinter  or  early  spring. 
You  have  constantly  the  warrant  of  life  and  expe 
rience  in  what  you  read.  The  little  that  is  said  is 
eked  out  by  implication  of  the  much  that  was  done. 
The  sentences  are  verdurous  and  blooming  as  evergreen 
and  flowers,  because  they  are  rooted  in  fact  and  expe 
rience,  but  our  false  and  florid  sentence  have  only  the 
tints  of  flowers  without  their  sap  or  roots.  All  men  are 
really  most  attracted  by  the  beauty  of  plain  speech,  and 
they  even  write  in  a  florid  style  in  imitation  of  this. 
They  prefer  to  be  misunderstood  rather  than  to  come 
uhort  of  its  exuberance.  Hussein  EfFencli  praised  the 
epistolary  style  of  Ibrahim  Pasha  to  the  French  travel 
ler  Botta,  because  of  "  the  difficulty  of  understanding  it ; 
there  was,"  he  said,  "  but  one  person  at  Jidda,  who  was 
capable  of  understanding  and  explaining  the  Pasha's 
correspondence."  A  man's  whole  life  is  taxed  for  the 
least  thing  well  done.  It  is  it.>  net  result.  Every  sen 
tence  is  the  result  of  a  long  probation.  Where  shall  we 
ook  for  standard  English,  but  to  the  words  of  a  stand- 


112  A    WEEK. 

Rrd  man  ?  The  word  which  is  best  said  came  nearest  to 
not  being  spoken  at  all,  for  it  is  cousin  to  a  deed  which 
the  speaker  could  have  better  done.  Nay,  almost  it 
must  have  taken  the  place  of  a  deed  by  some  urgent 
necessity,  even  by  some  misfortune,  so  that  the  truest 
writer  will  be  some  captive  knight,  after  all.  And  per 
haps  the  fates  had  such  a  design,  when,  having  stored 
Raleigh  so  richly  with  the  substance  of  life  and  experi 
ence,  they  made  him  a  fast  prisoner,  and  compelled  him 
to  make  his  words  his  deeds,  and  transfer  to  his  expres 
sion  the  emphasis  and  sincerity  of  his  action. 

Men  have  a  respect  for  scholarship  and  learning 
greatly  out  of  proportion  to  the  use  they  commonly 
serve.  We  are  amused  to  read  how  Ben  Jonson  en 
gaged,  that  the  dull  masks  with  which  the  royal  family 
and  nobility  were  to  be  entertained  should  be  "  grounded 
upon  antiquity  and  solid  learning."  Can  there  be  any 
greater  reproach  than  an  idle  learning?  Learn  to  spl't 
wood,  at  least.  The  necessity  of  labor  and  conversation 
with  many  men  and  things,  to  the  scholar  is  rarely  well 
remembered ;  steady  labor  with  the  hands,  which  en 
grosses  the  attention  also,  is  unquestionably  the  best 
method  of  removing  palaver  and  sentimentality  out  of 
one's  style,  both  of  speaking  and  writing.  If  he  has 
worked  hard  from  morning  till  night,  though  he  may 
have  grieved  that  he  could  not  be  watching  the  train  of 
his  thoughts  during  that  time,  yet  the  few  hasty  lines 
which  at  evening  record  his  day's  experience  will  be 
more  musical  and  true  than  his  freest  but  idle  fancy 
could  have  furnished.  Surely  the  writer  is  to  address 
a  world  of  laborers,  and  such  therefore  must  be  his  own 
discipline.  He  will  not  idly  dance  at  his  work  who  has 
wood  to  cut  and  cord  before  nightfall  in  the  short  dayg 


SUNDAY.  113 

of  winter;  but  every  stroke  will  be  husbanded,  and  ring 
poberly  through  the  wood;  and  so  will  the  strokes  of 
that  scholar's  pen,  which  at  evening  record  the  story  of 
the  day,  ring  soberly,  yet  cheerily,  on  the  ear  of  the 
reader,  long  after  the  echoes  of  his  axe  have  died  away. 
The  scholar  may  be  sure  that  he  writes  the  tougher 
truth  for  the  calluses  on  his  palms.  They  give  firmness 
to  the  sentence.  Indeed,  the  mind  never  makes  a  great 
and  successful  effort,  without  a  corresponding  energy  of 
the  body.  We  are  often  struck  by  the  force  and  pre 
cision  of  style  to  which  hard-working  men,  unpractised 
in  writing,  easily  attain  when  required  to  make  the  effort. 
As  if  plainness,  and  vigor,  and  sincerity,  the  ornaments 
of  style,  were  better  learned  on  the  farm  and  in  the 
workshop,  than  in  the  schools.  The  sentences  written 
by  such  rude  hands  are  nervous  and  tough,  like  hard 
ened  thongs,  the  sinews  of  the  deer,  or  the  roots  of  the 
pine.  As  for  the  graces  of  expression,  a  great  thought 
is  never  found  in  a  mean  dress ;  but  though  it  proceed 
from  the  lips  of  the  Woloffs,  the  nine  Muses  and  the 
three  Graces  will  have  conspired  to  clothe  it  in  fit 
phrase.  Its  education  has  always  been  liberal,  and  its 
implied  wit  can  endow  a  college.  The  world,  which  the 
Greeks  called  Beauty,  has  been  made  such  by  being 
gradually  divested  of  every  ornament  which  was  not 
fitted  to  endure.  The  Sibyl,  "  speaking  with  inspired 
mouth,  smileless,  inornate,  and  unperfumed,  pierces 
through  centuries  by  the  power  of  the  god."  The 
Bcholar  might  frequently  emulate  the  propriety  and  em 
phasis  of  the  farmer's  call  to  his  team,  and  confess  that 
if  that  were  written  it  would  surpass  his  labored  sen 
tences.  Whose  are  the  truly  labored  sentences  ?  From 
the  weak  and  flimsy  periods  of  the  politician  and  literary 


114  A    WEEK. 

man,  we  are  glad  to  turn  even  to  the  description  of  work, 
t'he  simple  record  of  the  month's  labor  in  the  farmer's 
almanac,  to  restore  our  tone  and  spirits..  A  sentence 
should  read  as  if  its  author,  had  he  held  a  plough  instead 
of  a  pen,  could  have  drawn  a  furrow  deep  and  straight 
to  the  end.  The  scholar  requires  hard  and  serious  labor 
to  give  an  impetus  to  his  thought.  He  will  learn  to 
grasp  the  pen  firmly  so,  and  wield  it  gracefully  and 
effectively,  as  an  axe  or  a  sword.  When  we  consider 
the  weak  and  nerveless  periods  of  some  literary  men, 
who  perchance  in  feet  and  inches  come  up  to  the  stand 
ard  of  their  race,  and  are  not  deficient  in  girth  also,  we 
are  amazed  at  the  immense  sacrifice  of  thews  and  sin 
ews.  What!  these  proportions,  —  these  bones,  —  and 
this  their  work !  Hands  which  could  have  felled  an  ox 
have  hewed  this  fragile  matter  which  would  not  have 
tasked  a  lady's  fingers !  Can  this  be  a  stalwart  man's 
work,  who  has  a  marrow  in  his  back  and  a  tendon 
Achilles  in  his  heel  ?  They  who  set  up  the  blocks  of 
Stonehenge  did  somewhat,  if  they  only  laid  out  their 
strength  for  once,  and  stretched  themselves. 

Yet,  after  all,  the  truly  efficient  laborer  will  not  crowd 
his  day  with  work,  but  will  saunter  to  his  task  surround 
ed  by  a  wide  halo  of  ease  and  leisure,  and  then  do  but 
what  he  loves  best.  He  is  anxious  only  about  the 
fruitful  kernels  of  time.  Though  the  hen  should  sit  all 
day,  she  could  lay  only  one  egg,  and,  besides,  would  no* 
have  picked  up  materials  for  another.  Let  a  man  take 
lime  enough  for  the  most  trivial  deed,  though  it  be  but 
the  paring  of  his  nails.  The  buds  swell  imperceptibly, 
without  hurry  or  confusion,  as  if  the  short  spring  days 
tvere  an  eternity. 

Then  spend  an  age  in  whetting  thy  desire, 
Thou  needs't  not  hatten  if  thon  dost  standfast. 


SUNDAY.  115 

Some  hours  seem  not  to  be  occasion  for  an}  deed,  but 
for  resolves  to  draw  breath  in.  We  do  not  directly  go 
about  the  execution  of  the  purpose  that  thrills  us,  but 
shut  our  doors  behind  us  and  ramble  with  prepared 
mind,  as  if  the  half  were  already  done.  Our  resolution 
is  taking  root  or  hold  on  the  earth  then,  as  seeds  first 
send  a  shoot  downward  which  is  fed  by  their  own  albu 
men,  ere  they  send  one  upward  to  the  light. 

There  is  a  sort  of  homely  truth  and  naturalness  in 
some  books  which  is  very  rare  to  find,  and  yet  looks 
cheap  enough.  There  may  be  nothing  lofty  in  the  senti 
ment,  or  fine  in  the  expression,  but  it  is  careless  country 
talk.  Homeliness  is  almost  as  great  a  merit  in  a  book 
as  in  a  house,  if  the  reader  would  abide  there.  It  is 
next  to  beauty,  and  a  very  high  art.  Some  have  this 
merit  only.  The  scholar  is  not  apt  to  make  his  most 
familiar  experience  come  gracefully  to  the  aid  of  his  ex 
pression.  Very  few  men  can  speak  of  Nature,  for 
instance,  with  any  truth.  They  overstep  her  modesty, 
somehow  or  other,  and  confer  no  favor.  They  do  not 
speak  a  good  word  for  her.  Most  cry  better  than  they 
speak,  and  you  can  get  more  nature  out  of  them  by 
pinching  than  by  addressing  them.  The  surliness  with 
\vhich  the  woodchopper  speaks  of  his  woods,  handling 
them  as  indifferently  as  his  axe,  is  better  than  the  mealy- 
mouthed  enthusiasm  of  the  lover  of  nature.  Better  that 
the  primrose  by  the  river's  brim  be  a  yellow  primrose, 
and  nothing  more,  than  that  it  be  something  less.  Au 
brey  relates  of  Thomas  Fuller  that  his  was  "a  very 
working  head,  insomuch  that,  walking  and  meditating 
before  dinner,  he  would  eat  up  a  penny  loaf,  not  know 
ing  that  he  did  it.  His  natural  memory  was  very  great 


116  A    WEEK. 

to  which  he  added  the  art  of  memory.  He  would  repeat 
to  you  forwards  and  backwards  all  the  signs  from  Lud- 
gate  to  Charing  Cross."  He  says  of  Mr.  John  Hales, 
that,  "  He  loved  Canarie,"  and  was  buried  "  under  an 

altar  monument  of  black  marble with  a  too 

long  epitaph  " ;  of  Edmund  Halley,  that  he  "  at  sixteen 
could  make  a  dial,  and  then,  he  said,  he  thought  himself 
a  brave  fellow  " ;  of  William  Holder,  who  wrote  a  book 
upon  his  curing  one  Popham  who  was  deaf  and  dumb, 
"  he  was  beholding  to  no  author ;  did  only  consult  with 
nature."  For  the  most  part,  an  author  consults  only 
with  all  who  have  written  before  him  upon  a  subject,  and 
his  book  is  but  the  advice  of  so  many.  But  a  good  book 
will  never  have  been  forestalled,  but  the  topic  itself  will 
in  one  sense  be  new,  and  its  author,  by  consulting  with 
nature,  will  consult  not  only  with  those  who  have  gone 
before,  but  with  those  who  may  come  after.  There  is 
always  room  and  occasion  enough  for  a  true  book  on  any 
subject;  as  there  is  room  for  more  light  the  brightest 
day  and  more  rays  will  not  interfere  with  the  first. 

We  thus  worked  our  way  up  this  river,  gradually  ad 
justing  our  thoughts  to  novelties,-  beholding  from  its  placid 
bosom  a  new  nature  and  new  works  of  men,  and,  as  it 
were  with  increasing  confidence,  finding  nature  still  habi 
table,  genial,  and  propitious  to  us ;  not  following  any 
beaten  path,  but  the  windings  of  the  river,  as  ever  the 
nearest  way  for  us.  Fortunately  we  had  no  business  in 
this  country.  The  Concord  had  rarely  been  a  river,  or 
rivus,  but  barely  fluvius,  or  between  fluvius  and  lacus 
This  Merrimack  was  neither  rivus  nor  fluvius  nor  lacus 
but  rather  amnis  here,  a  gently  swelling  and  stately 
rolling  flood  approaching  the  sea.  We  could  even  sym» 


SUNDAY.  117 

pathize  with  its  buoyant  tide,  going  to  seek  its  fortune 
in  the  ocean,  and,  anticipating  the  time  when  "being 
received  within  the  plain  of  its  freer  water/'  it  should 
"  beat  the  shores  for  banks,"  — 

"campoque  rccepta 
Liberioris  aquae,  pro  ripis  litora  pulsant." 

At  length  we  doubled  a  low  shrubby  islet,  called 
Rabbit  Island,  subjected  alternately  to  the  sun  and  to 
the  waves,  as  desolate  as  if  it  lay  some  leagues  within 
the  icy  sea,  and  found  ourselves  in  a  narrower  part  of 
the  river,  near  the  sheds  and  yards  for  picking  the  stone 
known  as  the  Chelmsford  granite,  which  is  quarried  m 
Westford  and  the  neighboring  towns.  We  passed  Wica- 
suck  Island,  which  contains  seventy  acres  or  more,  on 
our  right,  between  Chelmsford  and  Tyngsborough.  This 
was  a  favorite  residence  of  the  Indians.  According  to 
the  History  of  Dunstable,  "About  1663,  the  eldest  son 
of  Passaconaway  [Chief  of  the  Penacooks]  was  thrown 
into  jail  for  a  debt  of  £45,  due  to  John  Tinker,  by  one 
of  his  tribe,  and  which  he  had  promised  verbally  should 
be  paid.  To  relieve  him  from  his  imprisonment,  his 
brother  Wannalancet  and  others,  who  owned  Wicasuck 
Island,  sold  it  and  paid  the  debt."  It  was,  however,  re 
stored  to  the  Indians  by  the  General  Court  in  1665. 
After  the  departure  of  the  Indians  in  1683,  it  was 
granted  to  Jonathan  Tyng  in  payment  for  his  services 
to  the  colony,  in  maintaining  a  garrison  at  his  house. 
Tyng's  house  stood  not  far  from  Wicasuck  Falls.  Goo- 
kin,  who,  in  his  Epistle  Dedicatory  to  Robert  Boyle, 
apologizes  for  presenting  his  "  matter  clothed  in  a  wil 
derness  dress,"  says  that  on  the  breaking  out  of  Philip's 
war  in  1675,  there  were  taken  up  by  the  Christian 
Indians  and  the  English  in  Marlborough,  and  sent  to 


118  A    WEEK. 

Cambridge,  seven  "  Indians  belonging  to  Narragansett. 
Long  Island,  and  Pequod,  who  had  all  been  at  work 
about  seven  weeks  with  one  Mr.  Jonathan  Tyng,  of 
Dunstable,  upon  Merrimack  River ;  and,  hearing  of  the 
war,  they  reckoned  with  their  master,  and  getting  theif 
wages,  conveyed  themselves  away  without  his  privity, 
and,  being  afraid,  marched  secretly  through  the  woods, 
designing  to  go  to  their  own  country."  However,  they 
were  released  soon  after.  Such  were  the  hired  men  in 
those  days.  Tyng  was  the  first  permanent  settler  of 
Dunstable,  which  then  embraced  what  is  now  Tyngs- 
borough  and  many  other  towns.  In  the  winter  of 
1675,  in  Philip's  war,  every  other  settler  left  the  town, 
but  "  he,"  says  the  historian  of  Dunstable,  "  fortified  his 
house;  and,  although  'obliged  to  send  to  .Boston  for 
his  food,'  sat  himself  down  in  the  midst  of  his  savage 
enemies,  alone,  in  the  wilderness,  to  defend  his  home. 
Deeming  his  position  an  important  one  for  the  defence  of 
the  frontiers,  in  February,  1C7G,  he  petitioned  the  Colony 
for  aid,"  humbly  showing,  as  his  petition  runs,  that,  as  he 
lived  "  in  the  uppermost  house  on  Merrimac  river,  lying 
open  to  ye  enemy,  yet  being  so  seated  that  it  is,  as  it 
were,  a  watch-house  to  the  neighboring  towns,"  he  could 
render  important  service  to  his  country  if  only  he  had 
some  assistance,  "  there  being,"  he  said,  4t  never  an  in 
habitant  left  in  the  town  but  myself."  Wherefore  he 
requests  that  their  "  Honors  would  be  pleased  to  order 
him  three  or  four  men  to  help  garrison  his  said  house," 
which  they  did.  But  methinks  that  such  a  garrisot 
would  be  weakened  by  the  addition  of  a  man. 

"  Make  bandog  thy  scout  watch  to  bark  at  a  thief, 
Make  courage  for  life,  to  be  capitain  chief; 
Make  trap-door  thy  bulwark,  make  bell  to  begin, 
Make  gunstoue  and  arrow  show  who  is  within." 


113 

Thus  he  earned  the  title  of  first  permanent  settler.  In 
1694  a  law  was  passed  "that  every  settler  who  deserted 
a  town  for  fear  of  the  Indians  should  forfeit  all  his  rights 
therein."  But  now,  at  any  rate,  as  I  have  frequently 
observed,  a  man  may  desert  the  fertile  frontier  territories 
of  truth  and  justice,  which  are  the  State's  best  lands,  for 
fear  of  far  more  insignificant  foes,  without  forfeiting  any 
of  his  civil  rights  therein.  Nay,  townships  are  granted 
to  deserters,  and  the  General  Court,  as  I  am  sometimes 
inclined  to  regard  it,  is  but  a  deserters'  camp  itself. 

As  we  rowed  along  near  the  shore  of  Wicasuck  Island, 
which  was  then  covered  with  wood,  in  order  to  avoid  the 
current,  two  men,  who  looked  as  if  they  had  just  run 
out  of  Lowell,  where  they  had  been  waylaid  by  the 
Sabbath,  meaning  to  go  to  Nashua,  and  who  now  found 
themselves  in  the  strange,  natural,  uncultivated,  and 
unsettled  part  of  the  globe  which  intervenes,  full  of  walln 
and  barriers,  a  rough  and  uncivil  place  to  them,  seeing 
our  boat  moving  so  smoothly  up  the  stream,  called  out 
from  the  high  bank  above  our  heads  to  know  if  we 
would  take  them  as  passengers,  as  if  this  were  the  street 
they  had  missed ;  that  they  might  sit  and  chat  and  drive 
away  the  time,  and  so  at  last  find  themselves  in  Nashua. 
This  smooth  way  they  much  preferred.  But  our  boat 
was  crowded  with  necessary  furniture,  and  sunk  low  in 
the  water,  and  moreover  required  to  be  worked,  for  even 
it  did  not  progress  against  the  stream  without  effort ;  so 
we  were  obliged  to  deny  them  passage.  As  we  glided 
away  with  even  sweeps,  while  the  fates  scattered  oil  in 
our  course,  the  sun  now  sinking  behind  the  alders  on  the 
distant  shore,  we  could  still  see  them  far  off  over  the 
water,  running  along  the  shore  and  climbing  over  the 
rocks  and  fallen  trees  like  insects,  —  for  they  did  not 


120  A    WEEK. 

know  any  better  than  we  that  they  were  on  an  island,— 
the  unsympathizing  river  ever  flowing  in  an  opposite 
direction ;  until,  having  reached  the  entrance  of  the 
island  brook,  which  they  had  probably  crossed  upon  the 
locks  below,  they  found  a  more  effectual  barrier  to  their 
progress.  They  seemed  to  be  learning  much  in  a  little 
time.  They  ran  about  like  ants  on  a  burning  brand, 
and  once  more  they  tried  the  river  here,  and  once  more 
there,  to  see  if  water  still  indeed  was  not  to  be  walked 
on,  as  if  a  new  thought  inspired  them,  and  by  r-ome  pecu 
liar  disposition  of  the  limbs  they  could  accomplish  it 
At  length  sober  common  sense  seemed  to  have  resumed 
its  sway,  and  they  concluded  that  what  they  had  so  long 
heard  must  be  true,  and  resolved  to  ford  the  shallower 
stream.  When  nearly  a  mile  distant  we  could  see  them 
stripping  off  their  clothes  and  preparing  for  this  experi  • 
ment ;  yet  it  seemed  likely  that  a  new  dilemma  would 
arise,  they  were  so  thoughtlessly  throwing  away  their 
clothes  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  stream,  as  in  the  case 
of  the  countryman  with  his  corn,  his  fox,  and  his  goose, 
which  had  to  be  transported  one  at  a  time.  Whether 
they  got  safely  through,  or  went  round  by  the  locks,  we 
never  learned.  We  could  not  help  being  struck  by  the 
seeming,  though  innocent  indifference  of  Nature  to  these 
men's  necessities,  while  elsewhere  she  was  equally  serv 
ing  others.  Like  a  true  benefactress,  the  secret  of  her 
service  is  unchangeableness.  Thus  is  the  busiest  met 
chant,  though  within  sight  of  his  Lowell,  put  to  pilgrim's 
shifts,  and  soon  comes  to  staff  and  scrip  and  scallop 
Bhell. 

We,  too,  who  held  the  middle  of  the  stream,  came 
near  experiencing  a  pilgrim's  fate,  being  tempted  tc 
pursue  what  seemed  a  sturgeon  or  larger  fish,  for  we  re 


SUNDAY.  121 

membered  that  this  was  the  Sturgeon  River,  its  dark 
and  monstrous  back  alternately  rising  and  sinking  in 
mid-stream.  We  kept  falling  behind,  but  the  fish  kept 
his  back  well  out,  and  did  not  dive,  and  seemed  to  prefer 
to  swim  against  the  stream,  so,  at  any  rate,  he  would  not 
escape  us  by  going  out  to  sea.  At  length,  having  got 
as  near  as  was  convenient,  and  looking  out  not  to  get  a 
blow  from  his  tail,  now  the  bow-gunner  delivered  his 
charge,  while  the  stern-man  held  his  ground.  But  the 
halibut-skinned  monster,  in  one  of  these  swift-gliding 
pregnant  moments,  without  ever  ceasing  his  bobbing  up 
and  down,  saw  fit,  without  a  chuckle  or  other  prelude,  to 
proclaim  himself  a  huge  imprisoned  spar,  placed  there  as 
a  buoy,  to  warn  sailors  of  sunken  rocks.  So,  each  cast 
ing  some  blame  upon  the  other,  we  withdrew  quickly  to 
safer  waters. 

The  Scene-shifter  saw  fit  here  to  close  the  drama,  of 
this  day,  without  regard  to  any  unities  which  we  mortals 
prize.  Whether  it  might  have  proved  tragedy,  or  com 
edy,  or  tragi-comedy,  or  pastoral,  we  cannot  tell.  This 
Sunday  ended  by  the  going  down  of  the  sun,  leaving  us 
still  on  the  waves.  But  they  who  are  on  the  water 
enjoy  a  longer  and  brighter  twilight  than  they  who  are 
on  the  land,  for  here  the  water,  as  well  as  the  atmosphere, 
absorbs  and  reflects  the  light,  and  some  of  the  day  seems 
to  have  sunk  down  into  the  waves.  The  light  gradual 
ly  forsook  the  deep  water,  as  well  as  the  deeper  air,  and 
the  gloaming  came  to  the  fishes  as  well  as  to  us,  and 
more  dim  and  gloomy  to  them,  whose  day  is  a  perpetual 
twilight,  though  sufficiently  bright  for  their  weak  and 
watery  eyes.  Vespers  had  already  rung  in  many  a  dim 
and  watery  chapel  down  below,  where  the  shadows  of 
the  weeds  were  extended  in  length  over  the  sandy  floor 
6 


P22  A  WKI-:K. 

The  vespertinal  pout  had  already  begun  to  flit  on  leath« 
ern  fin,  and  the  finny  gossips  withdrew  from  the  fluvial 
street  to  creeks  and  coves,  and  other  private  haunts, 
excepting  a  few  of  stronger  fin,  which  anchored  in  the 
stream,  stemming  the  tide  even  in  their  dreams.  Mean 
while,  like  a  dark  evening  cloud,  we  were  wafted  over 
the  cope  of  their  sky,  deepening  the  shadows  on  their 
deluged  fields. 

Having  reached  a  retired  part  of  the  river  where  it 
spread  out  to  sixty  rods  in  width,  we  pitched  our  tent  on 
the  east  side,  in  Tyngsborough,  just  above  some  patches  of 
the  beach  plum,  which  was  now  nearly  ripe,  where  the 
sloping  bank  was  a  sufficient  pillow,  and  with  the  bustle 
of  sailors  making  the  land,  we  transferred  such  stores  as 
were  required  from  boat  to  tent,  and  hung  a  lantern  to 
the  tent-pole,  and  so  our  house  was  ready.  With  a  buf 
falo  spread  on  the  grass,  and  a  blanket  for  our  covering 
our  bed  was  soon  made.  A  fire  crackled  merrily  before 
the  entrance,  so  near  that  we  could  tend  it  without  step 
ping  abroad,  and  when  we  had  supped,  we  put  out  the 
blaze,  and  closed  the  door,  and  with  the  semblance  of 
domestic  comfort,  sat  up  to  read  the  Gazetteer,  to  learn 
our  latitude  and  longitude,  and  write  the  journal  of  the 
voyage,  or  listened  to  the  wind  and  the  rippling  of  the 
river  till  sleep  overtook  us.  There  we  lay  under  an  oak 
on  the  bank  of  the  stream,  near  to  some  farmer's  corn 
field,  getting  sleep,  and  forgetting  where  we  were ;  a 
great  blessing,  that  we  are  obliged  to  forget  our  enter 
prises  every  twelve  hours.  Minks,  muskrats,  meadow- 
mice^  woodchucks,  squirrels,  skunks,  rabbits,  foxes,  and 
weasels,  all  inhabit  near,  but  keep  very  close  while  you 
are  there.  The  river  sucking  and  eddying  away  alj 
night  down  toward  the  marts  and  the  seaboard,  a  great 


SUNDAY.  123 

wash  and  freshet,  and  no  small  enterprise  to  reflect  on. 
Instead  of  the  Scythian  vastness  of  the  Billerica  night, 
and  its  wild  musical  sounds,  we  were  kept  awake  by  the 
boisterous  sport  of  some  Irish  laborers  on  the  railroad, 
wafted  to  us  over  the  water,  still  unwearied  and  unresting 
on  this  seventh  day,  who  would  not  have  done  with 
whirling  up  and  down  the  track  with  ever  increasing 
velocity  and  still  reviving  shouts,  till  late  in  the  night. 

One  sailor  was  visited  in  his  dreams  this  night  by  the 
Evil  Destinies,  and  all  those  powers  that  are  hostile  to 
human  life,  which  constrain  and  oppress  the  minds  of 
men,  and  make  their  path  seem  difficult  and  narrow,  and 
beset  with  dangers,  so  that  the  most  innocent  and  worthy 
enterprises  appear  insolent  and  a  tempting  of  fate,  and 
the  gods  go  not  with  us.  But  the  other  happily  passed 
a  serene  and  even  ambrosial  or  immortal  night,  and  his 
sleep  was  dreamless,  or  only  the  atmosphere  of  pleasant 
dreams  remained,  a  happy  natural  sleep  until  the  morn 
ing  ;  and  his  cheerful  spirit  soothed  and  reassured  his 
brother,  for  whenever  they  meet,  the  Good  Genius  is 
sure  to  prevail. 


MONDAY. 


SI  thynke  for  to  touche  also 
The  worlde  whiche  newetii  o»cri.  ..Je, 
So  as  I  can,  so  as  I  male." 

Gowgm. 

"The  bye  sheryfe  of  Notynghame, 
Hym  holde  in  your  mynde." 

Robin  Hood,  Ballad*. 


•*Ht§  shoote  it  was  bat  loosely  shott, 

Yet  flewe  not  the  arrowe  in  raine, 

For  it  mett  ^ne  of  the  sheriffe's  men, 

*  v*  W'lliara  a  Trent  was  slaine." 

Robin  Hood  Ballad* 

on  toe  Heavens  for  what  he  missed  on  Earth." 
Britania't  Pa*toral» 


MONDAY. 


WHEN  the  first  light  dawned  on  the  earth,  and  the 
birds  awoke,  and  the  brave  river  was  heard  rippling 
confidently  seaward,  and  the  nimble  early  rising  wind 
rustled  the  oak  leaves  about  our  tent,  all  men,  having 
reinforced  their  bodies  and  their  souls  with  sleep,  and 
cast  aside  doubt  and  fear,  were  invited  to  unattempted 
adventures. 

"  All  courageous  knichtis 
Agains  the  day  dichtis 
The  breest-plate  that  bricht  is, 

To  feght  with  their  foue. 
The  stoned  steed  stampis 
Throw  curage  and  crampis, 
Syne  on  the  land  lampis; 

The  night  is  neir  gone." 

One  of  us  took  the  boat  over  to  the  opposite  shore, 
which  was  flat  and  accessible,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  dis 
tant,  to  empty  it  of  water  and  wash  out  the  clay, 
while  the  other  kindled  a  fire  and  got  breakfast  ready. 
At  an  early  hour  we  were  again  on  our  way,  rowing 
through  the  fog  as  before,  the  river  already  awake,  and 
a  million  crisped  waves  come  forth  to  meet  the  sun  when 
he  should  show  himself.  The  countrymen,  recruited  by 
their  day  of  rest,  were  already  stirring,  and  had  begun 
to  cross  the  ferry  on  the  business  of  the  week.  This 
ferry  was  as  busy  as  a  beaver  dam,  and  all  the  world 


128  A    WEEK. 

seemed  anxious  to  get  across  the  Merrimack  River  at 
this  particular  point,  waiting  to  get  set  over,  —  children 
with  their  two  cents  done  up  in  paper,  jail-birds  broke 
loose  and  constable  with  warrant,  travellers  from  distant 
lands  to  distant  lands,  men  and  women  to  whom  the 
Merrimack  River  was  a  bar.  There  stands  a  gig  in  the 
gray  morning,  in  the  mist,  the  impatient  traveller  pacing 
the  wet  shore  with  whip  in  hand,  and  shouting  through 
the  fog  after  the  regardless  Charon  and  his  retreating 
ark,  as  if  he  might  throw  that  passenger  overboard  and 
return  forthwith  for  himself;  he  will  compensate  him. 
He  is  to  break  his  fast  at  some  unseen  place  on  the  op 
posite  side.  It  may  be  Ledyard  or  the  Wandering  Jew. 
Whence,  pray,  did  he  come  out  of  the  foggy  night  ?  and 
whither  through  the  sunny  day  will  he  go?  We  observe 
only  his  transit ;  important  to  us,  forgotten  by  him,  tran 
siting  all  day.  There  are  two  of  them.  May  be,  they 
are  Virgil  and  Dante.  But  when  they  crossed  the  Styx, 
none  were  seen  bound  up  or  down  the  stream,  that  I 
remember.  It  is  only  a  transjectus,  a  transitory  voyage, 
like  life  itself,  none  but  the  long-lived  gods  bound  up  or 
down  the  stream.  Many  of  these  Monday  men  are 
ministers,  no  doubt,  reseeking  their  parishes  with  hired 
horses,  with  sermons  in  their  valises  all  read  and  gutted, 
the  day  after  never  with  them.  They  cross  each  other's 
routes  all  the  country  over  like  woof  and  warp,  making 
a  garment  of  loose  texture ;  vacation  now  for  six  days. 
They  stop  to  pick  nuts  and  berries,  and  gather  apples 
by  the  wayside  at  their  leisure.  Good  religious  men, 
with  the  love  of  men  in  their  hearts,  and  the  means  to 
pay  their  toll  in  their  pockets.  We  got  over  this  ferry 
chain  without  scraping,  rowing  athwart  the  tide  of  travel 
—  no  toll  for  us  That  day. 


MONDAY.  129 

The  fog  dispersed  and  we  rowed  leisurely  along 
through  Tyngsborough,  with  a  clear  sky  and  a  mild  at 
mosphere,  leaving  the  habitations  of  men  behind  and 
.penetrating  yet  farther  into  the  territory  of  ancient 
Dunstable.  It  was  from  Dunstable,  then  a  frontier  town 
that  the  famous  Captain  Lovewell,  with  his  company, 
marched  in  quest  of  the  Indians  on  the  18th  of  April, 
1725.  He  was  the  son  of  "an  ensign  in  the  army  of 
Oliver  Cromwell,  who  came  to  this  country,  and  settled 
at  Dunstable,  where  he  died  at  the  great  age  of  one  hun 
dred  and  twenty  years."  In  the  words  of  the  old  nursery 
tale,  sung  about  a  hundred  years  ago,  — 

"  He  and  his  valiant  soldiers  did  range  the  woods  full  wide, 
And  hardships  they  endured  to  quell  the  Indian's  pride." 

In  the  shaggy  pine  forest  of  Pequawket  they  met  the 
"  rebel  Indians,"  and  prevailed,  after  a  bloody  fight,  and 
a  remnant  returned  home  to  enjoy  the  fame  of  their  vic 
tory.  A  township  called  Lovewell's  Town,  but  now,  for 
some  reason,  or  perhaps  without  reason,  Pembroke,  wap 
granted  them  by  the  State. 

"  Of  all  our  valiant  English,  there  were  but  thirty-four, 
And  of  the  rebel  Indians,  there  were  about  four-score; 
And  sixteen  of  our  English  did  safely  home  return, 
The  rest  were  killed  and  wounded,  for  which  we  all  must  mourn. 

"  Our  worthy  Capt.  Lovewell  among  them  there  did  die, 
They  killed  Lieut.  Bobbins,  and  wounded  good  young  Frye, 
Who  was  our  English  Chaplin;  he  many  Indians  slew, 
And  some  of  them  he  scalped  while  bullets  round  him  flew." 

Our  brave  forefathers  have  exterminated  all  the  In 
dians,  and  their  degenerate  children  no  longer  dwell  in 
garrisoned  houses  nor  hear  any  war-whoop  in  their  path. 
It  wonld  be  well,  perchance,  if  many  an  "  English  Chap 
lin  "  in  these  days  could  exhibit  as  unquestionable  tro- 
6*  I 


130  A    WEEK. 

phies  of  his  valor  as  did  "  good  young  Frye."  We  have 
need  to  be  as  sturdy  pioneers  still  as  Miles  Standish,  or 
Church,  or  Lovewell.  We  are  to  follow  on  another 
trail,  it  is  true,  but  one  as  convenient  for  ambushes. 
What  if  the  Indians  are  exterminated,  are  not  savages 
as  grim  prowling  about  the  clearings  to-day  ?  — 

M  And  braving  many  dangers  and  hardships  in  the  way, 
They  safe  arrived  at  Dunstable  the  thirteenth  ( ?)  day  of  May." 

But  they  did  not  all  "safe  arrive  in  Dunstable  the 
thirteenth,"  or  the  fifteenth,  or  the  thirtieth  "day  of 
May."  Eleazer  Davis  and  Josiah  Jones,  both  of  Con 
cord,  for  our  native  town  had  seven  men  in  this  fight, 
Lieutenant  Farwell,  of  Dunstable;  and  Jonathan  Frye, 
of  Andover,  who  were  all  wounded,  were  left  behind, 
creeping  toward  the  settlements.  "After  travelling 
several  miles,  Frye  was  left  and  lost,"  though  a  more 
recent  poet  has  assigned  him  company  in  his  last 
hours. 

4  A  man  he  was  of  comely  form, 

Polished  and  brave,  well  learned  and  kind; 
Old  Harvard's  learned  halls  he  left 
Far  in  the  wilds  a  grave  to  find. 

"  Ah!  now  his  blood-red  arm  he  lifts; 

His  closing  lids  he  tries  to  raise; 
And  speak  once  more  before  he  dies, 
In  supplication  and  in  praise. 

44  He  prays  kind  Heaven  to  grant  success, 

Brave  Lovewell' s  men  to  guide  and  bless, 
And  when  they  've  shed  their  heart-blood  true, 
To  raise  them  all  to  happiness." 

***** 

"  Lieutenant  Farwell  took  his  hand, 

His  arm  around  his  neck  he  threw, 
And  said,  '  Brave  Chaphiin,  I  could  wish 
That  Heaven  had  made  me  die  for  you.' M 


MONDAY.  131 

Farwell  held  out  eleven  days.  *'  A  tradition  says,"  as 
we  .learn  from  the  History  of  Concord,  "that  arriving  at 
a  pond  with  Lieut.  Farwell,  Davis  pulled  off  one  of  his 
moccasins,  cut  it  in  strings,  on  which  he  fastened  a  hook, 
caught  some  fish,  fried  and  ate  them.  They  refreshed 
him,  but  were  injurious  to  Farwell,  who  died  soon  after." 
DaviB  had  a  ball  lodged  in  his  body,  and  his  right  hand 
shot  off;  but  on  the  whole,  he  seems  to  have  been  less 
damaged  than  his  companion.  He  came  into  Berwick 
after  being  out  fourteen  days.  Jones  also  had  a  ball 
lodged  in  his  body,  but  he  likewise  got  into  Saco  after 
fourteen  days,  though  not  in  the  best  condition  imagin 
able.  "  He  had  subsisted,"  says  an  old  journal,  "  on  the 
spontaneous  vegetables  of  the  forest ;  and  cranberries 
which  he  had  eaten  came  out  of  wounds  he  had  received 
in  his  body."  This  was  also  the  case  with  Davis. 
The  last  two  reached  home  at  length,  safe  if  not  sound, 
and  lived  many  years  in  a  crippled  state  to  enjoy  their 
pension. 

But  alas !  of  the  crippled  Indians,  and  their  adven 
tures  in  the  woods,  — 

"  For  as  we  are  informed,  so  thick  and  fast  they  fell, 
Scarce  twenty  of  their  number  at  night  did  get  home  well,"  — 

how  many  balls  lodged  with  them,  how  fared  their  cran 
berries,  what  Berwick  or  Saco  they  got  into,  and  finally 
what  pension  or  township  was  granted  them,  there  is  no 
journal  to  tell. 

It  is  stated  in  the  History  of  Dunstable,  that  just  be 
fore  his  last  march,  Lovewell  was  warned  to  beware  of 
the  ambuscades  of  the  enemy,  but  "  he  replied,  *  that  he 
did  not  care  for  them,'  and  bending  down  a  small  elm 
beside  which  he  was  standing  into  a  bow,  declared  4  that 
he  would  treat  the  In  lians  in  the  same  way.'  This  elm 


132  A    WEEK. 

is  still  standing  [in  Nashua],  a  venerable  and  magnifi 
cent  tree." 

Meanwhile,  having  passed  the  Horseshoe  Interval  in 
Tyngsborough,  where  the  river  makes  a  sudden  bend  to 
the  northwest,  —  for  our  reflections  have  anticipated  our 
progress  somewhat,  —  we  were  advancing  farther  into 
the  country  and  into  the  day,  which  last  proved  almost 
as  golden  as  the  preceding,  though  the  slight  bustle  and 
activity  of  the  Monday  seemed  to  penetrate  even  to  this 
scenery.  Now  and  then  we  had  to  muster  all  our  energy 
to  get  round  a  point,  where  the  river  broke  rippling  over 
rocks,  and  the  maples  trailed  their  branches  in  the 
Btream,  but  there  was  generally  a  backwater  or  eddy  on 
the  side,  of  which  we  took  advantage.  The  river  was 
here  about  forty  rods  wide  and  fifteen  feet  dtep.  Occa 
sionally  one  ran  along  the  shore,  examining  the  country, 
and  visiting  the  nearest  farm-houses,  while  the  other  fol 
lowed  the  windings  of  the  stream  alone,  to  meet  his 
companion  at  some  distant  point,  and  hear  the  report  of 
his  adventures ;  how  the  farmer  praised  the  coolness  of 
his  well,  and  his  wife  offered  the  stranger  a  draught  of 
milk,  or  the  children  quarrelled  for  the  only  transparency 
in  the  window  that  they  might  get  sight  of  the  man  at 
the  well.  For  though  the  country  seemed  so  new,  and 
no  house  was  observed  by  us,  shut  in  between  the  banks 
that  sunny  day,  we  did  not  have  to  travel  far  to  find 
where  men  inhabited,  like  wild  bees,  and  had  sunk  wells 
in  the  loose  sand  and  loam  of  the  Merrimack.  There 
dwelt  the  subject  of  the  Hebrew  scriptures,  and  the 
Esprit  des  Lois,  where  a  thin  vaporous  smoke  curled  up 
through  the  noon.  All  that  is  told  of  mankind,  of  the 
inhabitants  of  the  Upper  Nib,  and  the  Sutulerbunds 


MONDAY.  133 

and  Timbuctoo,  and  the  Orinoko,  was  experience  here. 
Every  race  and  class  of  men  was  represented.  Accord 
ing  to  Belknap,  the  historian  of  New  Hampshire,  who 
wrote  sixty  years  ago,  here  too,  perchance,  dwelt  "  new 
lights,"  and  free  thinking  men  even  then.  "  The  people 
in  general  throughout  the  State,"  it  is  written,  "  are  pro 
fessors  of  the  Christian  religion  in  some  form  or  other. 
There  is,  however,  a  sort  of  wise  men  who  pretend  to 
reject  it ;  but  they  have  not  yet  been  able  to  substitute 
a  better  in  its  place." 

The  other  voyageur,  perhaps,  would  in  the  mean  while 
have  seen  a  brown  hawk,  or  a  woodchuck,  or  a  musquash 
creeping  under  the  alders. 

We  occasionally  rested  in  the  shade  of  a  maple  or  a 
willow,  and  drew  forth  a  melon  for  our  refreshment, 
while  we  contemplated  at  our  leisure  the  lapse  of  the 
river  and  of  human  life ;  and  as  that  current,  with  its 
floating  twigs  and  leaves,  so  did  all  things  pass  in  review 
before  us,  while  far  away  in  cities  and  marts  on  this  very 
stream,  the  old  routine  was  proceeding  still.  There  is, 
indeed,  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men,  as  the  poet  says,  and 
yet  as  things  flow  they  circulate,  and  the  ebb  always 
balances  the  flow.  All  streams  are  but  tributary  to  the 
ocean,  which  itself  does  not  stream,  and  the  shores  are 
unchanged,  but  in  longer  periods  than  man  can  measure. 
Go  where  we  will,  we  discover  infinite  change  in  partic 
ulars  only,  not  in  generals.  When  I  go  into  a  museum 
and  see  the  mummies  wrapped  in  their  linen  bandages, 
I  see  that  the  lives  of  men  began  to  need  reform  as  long 
ago  as  when  they  walked  the  earth.  I  come  out  into  the 
streets,  and  meet  men  who  declare  that  the  time  is  near 
at  hand  for  the  redemption  of  the  race.  But  as  men 
Uved  in  Thebes,  so  do  they  live  in  Dunstable  to-day. 


134  A    WEEK. 

'*  Time  drinketh  up  the  essence  of  every  great  and  noble 
action  which  ought  to  be  performed,  and  is  delayed  iu 
the  execution."  So  says  Veeshnoo  Sarma ;  and  we  per 
ceive  that  the  schemers  return  again  and  again  to  com 
mon  sense  and  labor.  Such  is  the  evidence  of  history. 

"  Yet  I  doubt  not  through  the  ages  one  increasing  purpose  runs, 
And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widened  with   the   process  of  th« 
Suns." 

There  are  secret  articles  in  our  treaties  with  the  gods, 
of  more  importance  than  all  the  rest,  which  the  historian 
can  never  know. 

There  are  many  skilful  apprentices,  but  few  master 
workmen.  On  every  hand  we  observe  a  truly  wise  prac 
tice,  in  education,  in  morals,  and  in  the  arts  of  life,  the 
embodied  wisdom  of  many  an  ancient  philosopher.  Who 
does  not  see  that  heresies  have  some  time  prevailed,  that 
reforms  have  already  taken  place  ?  All  this  worldly 
wisdom  might  be  regarded  as  the  once  unaraiable  heresy 
of  some  wise  man.  Some  interests  have  got  a  footing 
on  the  earth  which  we  have  not  made  sufficient  allow 
ance  for.  Even  they  who  first  built  these  barns  and 
cleared  the  land  thus,  had  some  valor.  The  abrupt 
epochs  and  chasms  are  smoothed  down  in  history  as  the 
inequalities  of  the  plain  are  concealed  by  distance. 
But  unless  we  do  more  than  simply  learn  the  trade  of 
,)ur  time,  we  are  but  apprentices,  and  not  yet  masters  of 
the  art  of  life. 

Now  that  we  are  casting  away  these  melon  seeds,  how 
can  we  help  feeling  reproach?  He  who  eats  the  fruit, 
should  at  least  plant  the  seed ;  aye,  if  possible,  a  better 
seed  than  that  whose  fruit  he  has  enjoyed.  Seeds 
there  are  seeds  enough  which  need  only  to  be  stirred  ii 
with  the  soil  where  they  lie,  by  an  inspired  voice  or  pen 


MONDAY.  135 

to  bear  fruit  of  a  divine  flavor.  '  O  thou  spendthrift ! 
Defray  thy  debt  to  the  world ;  eat  not  the  seed  of  insti 
tutions,  as  the  luxurious  do,  but  plant  it  rather,  while 
thou  devourest  the  pulp  and  tuber  for  thy  subsistence ; 
that  so,  perchance,  one  variety  may  at  last  be  found 
worthy  of  preservation. 

There  are  moments  when  all  anxiety  and  stated  toil 
are  becalmed  in  the  infinite  leisure  and  repose  of  nature. 
All  laborers  must  have  their  nooning,  and  at  this  season 
of  the  day,  we  are  all,  more  or  less,  Asiatics,  and  give 
over  all  work  and  reform.  While  lying  thus  on  our  oars 
by  the  side  of  the  stream,  in  the  heat  of  the  day,  our 
boat  held  by  an  osier  put  through  the  staple  in  its  prow, 
and  slicing  the  melons,  which  are  a  fruit  of  the  East,  our 
thoughts  reverted  to  Arabia,  Persia,  and  Hindostan,  the 
lands  of  contemplation  and  dwelling-places  of  the  rumi 
nant  nations.  In  the  experience  of  this  noontide  we 
could  find  some  apology  even  for  the  instinct  of  the 
opium,  betel,  and  tobacco  chewers.  Mount  Saber,  ac 
cording  to  the  French  traveller  and  naturalist,  Botta,  is 
celebrated  for  producing  the  Kat-tree,  of  which  "  the  soft 
tops  of  the  twigs  and  tender  leaves  are  eaten,"  says  his 
reviewer,  "  and  produce  an  agreeable  soothing  excite 
ment,  restoring  from  fatigue,  banishing  sleep,  and  dis 
posing  to  the  enjoyment  of  conversation."  We  thought 
that  we  might  lead  a  dignified  Oriental  life  along  this 
stream  as  well,  and  the  maple  and  alders  would  be  our 
Kat-trees. 

It  is  a  great  pleasure  to  escape  sometimes  from  the 
restless  class  of  Reformers.  What  if  these  grievances 
exist?  So  do  you  and  I.  Think  you  that  sitting  hens 
are  troubled  with  ennui  these  long  summer  days,  sitting 
on  and  on  in  the  crevice  of  a  hay-loft,  without  active 


136  A    WEEK. 

employment  ?  By  the  faint  cackling  in  distant  barns,  I 
judge  that  dame  Nature  is  interested  still  to  know  how 
many  eggs  her  hens  lay.  The  Universal  Soul,  as  it  is 
called,  has  an  interest  in  the  stacking  of  hay,  the  fodder 
ing  of  cattle,  and  the  draining  of  peat-meadows.  Away 
in  Scythia,  away  in  India,  it  makes  butter  and  cheese. 
Suppose  that  all  farms  are  run  out,  and  we  youths  must 
buy  old  land  and  bring  it  to,  still  everywhere  the  relent 
less  opponents  of  reform  bear  a  strange  resemblance  to 
ourselves ;  or,  perchance,  they  are  a  few  old  maids  and 
bachelors,  who  sit  round  the  kitchen  hearth  and  listen 
to  the  singing  of  the  kettle.  "  The  oracles  often  give 
victory  to  our  choice,  and  not  to  the  order  alone  of  the 
mundane  periods.  As,  for  instance,  when  they  say  that 
our  voluntary  sorrows  germinate  in  us  as  the  growth  of 
the  particular  life  we  lead."  The  reform  which  you  talk 
about  can  be  undertaken  any  morning  before  unbarring 
our  doors.  We  need  not  call  any  convention.  When 
two  neighbors  begin  to  eat  corn  bread,  who  before  ate 
wheat,  then  the  gods  smile  from  ear  to  ear,  for  it  is  very 
pleasant  to  them.  Why  do  you  not  try  it  ?  Don't  let 
me  hinder  you. 

There  are  theoretical  reformers  at  all  times,  and  all 
the  world  over,  living  on  anticipation.  Wolff,  travelling 
in  the  deserts  of  Bokhara,  says,  "  Another  party  of  der- 
veeshes  came  to  me  and  observed,  *  The  time  will  come 
when  there  shall  be  no  difference  between  rich  and 
poor,  between  high  and  low,  when  property  will  be  in 
common,  even  wives  and  children.' "  But  forever  I  ask 
of  such,  What  then  ?  The  derveeshes  in  the  deserts  of 
Bokhara  and  the  reformers  in  Marlboro'  Chapel  sing  thft 
same  song.  "  There 's  a  good  time  coming,  boys,"  but^ 
nski'd  one  of  the  audience,  in  good  faith,  "  Can  you  fix 
the  date  ?  "  Said  I,  "  Will  you  help  it  along  ?  " 


MONDAY.  137 

The  nonchalance  and  dolce-far-niente  air  of  nature 
and  society  hint  at  infinite  periods  in  the  progress  of 
mankind.  The  States  have  leisure  to  laugh  from  Maine 
to  Texas  at  some  newspaper  joke,  and  New  England 
shakes  at  the  double-entendres  of  Australian  circles, 
while  the  poor  reformer  cannot  get  a  hearing. 

Men  do  not  fail  commonly  for  want  of  knowledge,  but 
for  want  of  prudence  to  give  wisdom  the  preference. 
What  we  need  to  know  in  any  case  is  very  simple.  It 
is  but  too  easy  to  establish  another  durable  and  harmo 
nious  routine.  Immediately  all  parts  of  nature  consent 
to  it.  Only  make  something  to  take  the  place  of  some 
thing,  and  men  will  behave  as  if  it  was  the  very  thing 
they  wanted.  They  must  behave,  at  any  rate,  and  will 
work  up  any  material.  There  is  always  a  present  and 
extant  life,  be  it  better  or  worse,  which  all  combine  to 
uphold.  We  should  be  slow  to  mend,  my  friends,  as 
slow  to  require  mending,  "Not  hurling,  according  to 
the  oracle,  a  transcendent  foot  towards  piety."  The 
language  of  excitement  is  at  best  picturesque  merely. 
You  must  be  calm  before  you  can  utter  oracles.  What 
was  the  excitement  of  the  Delphic  priestess  compared 
with  the  calm  wisdom  of  Socrates  ?  —  or  whoever  it 
was  that  was  wise.  —  Enthusiasm  is  a  supernatural 
serenity. 

"  Men  find  that  action  is  another  thing 

Than  what  they  in  discoursing  papers  read; 
The  world's  affairs  require  in  managing 
More  arts  than  those  wherein  you  clerks  proceed." 

As  in  geology,  so  in  social  institutions,  we  may  discover 
.he  causes  of  all  past  change  in  the  present  invariable 
order  of  society.  The  greatest  appreciable  physical 
revolutions  are  the  work  of  the  lighf-footed  air,  the 


138  A    WEEK. 

Healthy-paced  water,  and  the  subterranean  fire.  Aris 
totle  said,  "  As  time  never  fails,  and  the  universe  is 
eternal,  neither  the  Tanais  nor  the  Nile  can  have  flowed 
forever."  We  are  independent  of  the  change  we  detect 
The  longer  the  lever  the  less  perceptible  its  motion. 
It  is  the  slowest  pulsation  which  is  the  most  vital. 
The  hero  then  will  know  how  to  wait,  as  well  as  to 
make  haste.  All  good  abides  with  him  who  waiteth 
wisely;  we  shall  sooner  overtake  the  dawn  by  remain 
ing  here  than  by  hurrying  over  the  hills  of  the  west. 
Be  assured  that  every  man's  success  is  in  proportion  to 
his  average  ability.  The  meadow  flowers  spring  and 
bloom  where  the  waters  annually  deposit  their  slime,  not 
where  they  reach  in  some  freshet  only.  A  man  is  not 
his  hope,  nor  his  despair,  nor  yet  his  past  deed.  We 
know  not  yet  what  we  have  done,  still  less  what  we  are 
doing.  Wait  till  evening,  and  other  parts  of  our  day's 
work  will  shine  than  we  had  thought  at  noon,  and  we 
shall  discover  the  real  purport  of  our  toil.  As  when  the 
farmer  has  reached  the  end  of  the  furrow  and  looks 
back,  he  can  tell  best  where  the  pressed  earth  shines 
most 

To  one  who  habitually  endeavors  to  contemplate  the 
true  state  of  things,  the  political  state  can  hardly  be  said 
to  have  any  existence  whatever.  It  is  unreal,  incredible, 
and  insignificant  to  him,  and  for  him  to  endeavor  to  ex 
tract  the  truth  from  such  lean  material  is  like  making 
sugar  from  linen  rags,  when  sugar-cane  may  be  had. 
Generally  speaking,  the  political  news,  whether  domestic 
or  foreign,  might  be  written  to-day  for  the  next  ten  years 
will)  sufficient  accuracy.  Most  revolutions  in  society 
have  not  power  to  interest,  still  less  alarm  us ;  but  tel» 


MONDAY.  139 

me  that  our  rivers  are  drying  up,  or  the  genus  pine 
dying  out  in  the  country,  and  I  might  attend.  Most 
events  recorded  in  history  are  more  remarkable  than 
important,  like  eclipses  of  the  sun  and  moon,  by  which 
all  are  attracted,  but  whose  effects  no  one  takes  the 
trouble  to  calculate. 

But  will  the  government  never  be  so  well  adminis 
tered,  inquired  one,  that  we  private  men  shall  hear 
nothing  about  it  ?  "  The  king  answered :  At  all  events, 
I  require  a  prudent  and  able  man,  who  is  capable  of 
managing  the  state  affairs  of  my  kingdom.  The  ex- 
minister  said :  The  criterion,  O  Sire !  of  a  wise  and 
competent  man  is,  that  he  will  not  meddle  with  such 
like  matters."  Alas  that  the  ex-minister  should  have 
been  so  nearly  right ! 

In  my  short  experience  of  human  life,  the  outward 
obstacles,  if  there  were  any  such,  have  not  been  living 
men,  but  the  institutions  of  the  dead.  It  is  grateful  to 
make  one's  way  through  this  latest  generation  as  through 
dewy  grass.  Men  are  as  innocent  as  the  morning  to  the 
unsuspicious. 

"  And  round  about  good  morrows  fly, 
As  if  day  taught  humanity." 

Not  being  Reve  of  this  Shire, 

u  The  early  pilgrim  blithe  he  hailed, 

That  o'er  the  hills  did  stray, 

And  many  an  early  husbandman, 

That  he  met  on  the  way  " ;  — 

thieves  and  robbers  all,  nevertheless.  I  have  not  so 
Burely  foreseen  that  any  Cossack  or  Chippeway  would 
come  to  disturb  the  honest  and  simple  commonwealth,  ad 
that  some  monster  institution  would  at  length  embrace 
and  crush  its  free  members  in  its  scaly  folds ;  for  it  is 


140  A    WEEK. 

not  to  be  forgotten,  that  while  the  law  holds  fast  the 
thief  and  murderer,  it  lets  itself  go  loose.  When  I  have 
not  paid  the  tax  which  the  State  demanded  for  that  pro 
tection  which  I  did  not  want,  itself  has  robbed  me ;  when 
I  have  asserted  the  liberty  it  presumed  to  declare,  itself 
has  imprisoned  me.  Poor  creature !  if  it  knows  no 
better  I  will  not  blame  it.  If  it  cannot  live  but  by  these 
means,  I  can.  I  do  not  wish,  it  happens,  to  be  asso 
ciated  with  Massachusetts,  either  in  holding  slaves  or  in 
conquering  Mexico.  I  am  a  little  better  than  herself  in 
these  respects.  —  As  for  Massachusetts,  that  huge  she 
Briareus,  Argus  and  Colchian  Dragon  conjoined,  set  to 
watch  the  Heifer  of  the  Constitution  and  the  Golden 
Fleece,  we  would  not  warrant  our  respect  for  her,  like 
Borne  compositions,  to  preserve  its  qualities  through  all 
weathers.  —  Thus  it  has  happened,  that  not  the  Arch 
Fiend  himself  has  been  in  my  way,  but  these  toils  which 
tradition  says  were  originally  spun  to  obstruct  him. 
They  are  cobwebs  and  trifling  obstacles  in  an  earnest 
man's  path,  it  is  true,  and  at  length  one  even  becomes 
attached  to  his  unswept  and  undusted  garret.  I  love 
man  —  kind,  but  I  hate  the  institutions  of  the  dead  un 
kind.  Men  execute  nothing  so  faithfully  as  the  wills  of 
the  dead,  to  the  last  codicil  and  letter.  They  rule  this 
world,  and  the  living  are  but  their  executors.  Such 
foundation  too  have  our  lectures  and  our  sermons,  com 
monly.  They  are  all  Dudleian ;  and  piety  derives  its 
origin  still  from  that  exploit  of  pius  ^Eneas,  who  bore 
his  father,  Anchises,  on  his  shoulders  from  the  ruins  of 
Troy.  Or  rather,  like  some  Indian  tribes,  we  bear  about 
with  us  the  mouldering  relics  of  our  ancestors  on  our 
shoulders.  If,  for  instance,  a  man  asserts  the  value  of 
individual  liberty  over  the  merely  political  commonweal 


MONDAY.  141 

his  neighbor  still  tolerates  him,  that  he  who  is  living 
near  him,  sometimes  even  sustains  him,  but  never  the 
State.  Its  officer,  as  a  living  man,  may  have  human 
virtues  and  a  thought  in  his  brain,  but  as  the  tool  of  an 
institution,  a  jailer  or  constable  it  may  be,  he  is  not  a 
whit  superior  to  his  prison  key  or  his  staff.  Herein  is  the 
tragedy ;  that  men  doing  outrage  to  their  proper  natures, 
even  those  called  wise  and  good,  lend  themselves  to 
perform  the  office  of  inferior  and  brutal  ones.  Hence 
come  war  and  slavery  in ;  and  what  else  may  not  come 
in  by  this  opening?  But  certainly  there  are  modes  by 
which  a  man  may  put  bread  into  his  mouth  which  will 
not  prejudice  him  as  a  companion  and  neighbor. 

"  Now  turn  again,  turn  again,  said  the  pinder, 

For  a  wrong  way  you  have  gone, 
For  you  have  forsaken  the  king's  highway, 
And  made  a  path  over  the  corn." 

Undoubtedly,  countless  reforms  are  called  for,  because 
society  is  not  animated,  or  instinct  enough  with  life,  but 
in  the  condition  of  some  snakes  which  I  have  seen  in 
early  spring,  with  alternate  portions  of  their  bodies  torpid 
and  flexible,  so  that  they  could  wriggle  neither  way.  All 
men  are  partially  buried  in  the  grave  of  custom,  and  of 
some  we  see  only  the  crown  of  the  head  above  ground. 
Better  are  the  physically  dead,  for  they  more  lively  rot 
Even  virtue  is  no  longer  such  if  it  be  stagnant.  A  man's 
life  should  be  constantly  as  fresh  as  this  river.  It  should 
be  the  same  channel,  but  a  new  water  every  instant. 

"  Virtues  as  rivers  pass, 
But  still  remains  that  virtuous  man  there  was." 

Most  men  have  no  inclination,  no  rapids,  no  cascades, 
but  marshes,  arid  alligators,  and  miasma  instead.  We 


142  A    WEEK. 

read  that  when  in  the  expedition  of  Alexander,  Onesich- 
tus  was  sent  forward  to  meet  certain  of  the  Indian  sect 
of  Gymnosophists,  and  he  had  told  them  of  those  new 
philosophers  of  the  West,  Pythagoras,  Socrates,  and 
Diogenes,  and  their  doctrines,  one  of  them  named  Dan- 
damis  answered,  that  "  They  appeared  to  him  to  have 
been  men  of  genius,  but  to  have  lived  with  too  passive  a 
regard  for  the  laws."  The  philosophers  of  the  West  are 
liable  to  this  rebuke  still.  "  They  say  that  Lieou-hia- 
hoei,  and  Chao-lien  did  not  sustain  to  the  end  their 
resolutions,  and  that  they  dishonored  their  character. 
Their  language  was  in  harmony  with  reason  and  justice  ; 
while  their  acts  were  in  harmony  with  the  sentiments  of 
men." 

Chateaubriand  said:  "There  are  two  things  which 
grow  stronger  in  the  breast  of  man,  in  proportion  as  he 
advances  in  years  :  the  love  of  country  and  religion.  Let 
them  be  never  so  much  forgotten  in  youth,  they  sooner  or 
later  present  themselves  to  us  arrayed  in  all  their  charms, 
and  excite  in  the  recesses  of  our  hearts  an  attachment 
justly  due  to  their  beauty."  It  may  be  so.  But  even 
this  infirmity  of  noble  minds  marks  the  gradual  decay  of 
youthful  hope  and  faith.  It  is  the  allowed  infidelity  oi 
age.  There  is  a  saying  of  the  Yoloffs,  "  He  who  wa& 
born  first  has  the  greatest  number  of  old  clothes,"  conse 
quently  M.  Chateaubriand  has  more  old  clothes  than  7 
have.  It  is  comparatively  a  faint  and  .reflected  beauty 
that  is  admired,  not  an  essential  and  intrinsic  one.  It  is 
because  the  old  are  weak,  feel  their  mortality,  and  think 
that  they  have  measured  the  strength  of  man.  They 
will  not  boast ;  they  will  be  frank  and  humble.  Well, 
let  them  have  the  few  poor  comforts  they  can  keep 
Humility  is  still  a  very  human  virtue.  Thev  look  back 


MONDAY.  1 43 

on  life,  and  so  see  not  into  the  future.  The  prospect  of 
the  young  is  forward  and  unbounded,  mingling  the  future 
with  the  present.  In  the  declining  day  the  thoughts 
make  haste  to  rest  in  darkness,  and  hardly  look  forward 
to  the  ensuing  morning.  The  thoughts  of  the  old  pre 
pare  for  night  and  slumber.  The  same  hopes  and  pros 
pects  are  not  for  him  who  stands  upon  the  rosy  mountain 
tops  of  life,  and  him  who  expects  the  setting  of  his  earthly 
day. 

I  must  conclude  that  Conscience,  if  that  be  the  name 
of  it,  was  not  given  us  for  no  purpose,  or  for  a  hinderance. 
However  flattering  order  and  expediency  may  Jook,  it  is 
but  the  repose  of  a  lethargy,  and  we  will  choose  rather 
to  be  awake,  though  it  be  stormy,  and  maintain  ourselves 
on  this  earth  and  in  this  life,  as  we  may,  without  signing 
our  death-warrant.  Let  us  see  if  we  cannot  stay  here, 
where  He  has  put  us,  on  his  own  conditions.  Does  not 
his  law  reach  as  far  as  his  light  ?  The  expedients  of 
the  nations  clash  with  one  another,  only  the  absolutely 
right  is  expe-dient  for  all. 

There  are  some  passages  in  the  Antigone  of  Sophocles, 
well  known  to  scholars,  of  which  I  am  reminded  in  this 
connection.  Antigone  has  resolved  to  sprinkle  sand  on 
the  dead  body  of  her  brother  Polynices,  notwithstanding 
the  edict  of  King  Creon  condemning .  to  death  that  one 
who  should  perform  this  service,  which  the  Greeks 
deemed  so  important,  for  the  enemy  of  his  country ;  but 
Ismene.  who  is  of  a  less  resolute  and  noble  spirit,  de 
clines  taking  part  with  her  sister  in  this  work,  and 
Bays,  — 

"  I,  therefore,  asking  those  under  the  earth  to  consider  me, 
khat  I  am  compelled  to  do  thus,  will  obey  those  who  are 
placed  in  office ;  for  to  do  extreme  things  is  not  wise.1' 


144  A    WEEK. 

ANTIGONE. 

"  I  would  not  ask  you,  nor  would  you,  if  you  still  wished, 
do  it  joyfully  with  me.  Be  such  as  seems  good  to  you.  But 
I  will  bury  him.  It  is  glorious  for  me  doing  this  to  die.  I 
beloved  will  lie  with  him  beloved,  having,  like  a  criminal, 
done  what  is  holy ;  since  the  time  is  longer  which  it  is  neces 
sary  for  me  to  please  those  below,  than  those  here,  for  there 
I  shall  always  lie.  But  if  it  seems  good  to  you,  hold  in  dis 
honor  things  which  are  honored  by  the  gods." 

I8MENE. 

**  I  indeed  do  not  hold  them  in  dishonor ;  but  to  act  in  op 
position  to  the  citizens  I  am  by  nature  unable." 

Antigone  being  at  length  brought  before  King  Creon, 
he  asks,  — 

**  Did  you  then  dare  to  transgress  these  laws  ?  " 

ANTIGONE. 

"  For  it  was  not  Zeus  who  proclaimed  these  to  me,  nor 
Justice  who  dwells  with  the  gods  below;  it  was  not  they 
who  established  these  laws  among  men.  Nor  did  I  think 
tfiat  your  proclamations  were  so  strong,  as,  being  a  mortal, 
to  be  able  to  transcend  the  unwritten  and  immovable  laws  of 
the  gods.  For  not  something  now  and  yesterday,  but  for 
ever  these  live,  and  no  one  knows  from  what  time  they  ap 
peared.  I  was  not  about  to  pay  the  penalty  of  violating 
these  to  the  gods,  fearing  the  presumption  of  any  man.  For 
I  well  knew  that  I  should  die,  and  why  not  ?  even  if  you  had 
not  proclaimed  it." 

This  was  concerning  the  burial  of  a  dead  body. 

The  wisest  conservatism  is  that  of  the  Hindoos.  "  Im 
memorial  cnstom  is  transcendent  law,"  says  Menu. 
That  i.«,  it  was  the  custom  of  the  gods  before  men  used 
it.  The  fault  of  our  New  England  custom  is  that  it  ia 


MONDAY,  145 

memorial.  What  is  morality  but  immemorial  custom  ? 
Conscience  is  the  chief  of  conservatives.  "  Perform  the 
settled  functions,"  says  Kreeshna  in  the  Bhagvat-Geeta ; 
"  action  is  preferable  to  inaction.  The  journey  of  thy 
mortal  frame  may  not  succeed  from  inaction."  —  "A 
man's  own  calling  with  all  its  faults,  ought  not  to  be  for 
saken.  Every  undertaking  is  involved  in  its  faults  as 
the  fire  in  its  smoke."  —  "  The  man  who  is  acquainted 
with  the  whole,  should  not  drive  those  from  their  works 
who  are  slow  of  comprehension,  and  less  experienced 
than  himself."  —  "  Wherefore,  O  Arjoon,  resolve  to 
fight,"  is  the  advice  of  the  God  to  the  irresolute  sol 
dier  who  fears  to  slay  his  best  friends.  It  is  a  sublime 
conservatism  ;  as  wide  as  the  world,  and  as  unwearied  as 
time  ;  preserving  the  universe  with  Asiatic  anxiety,  in 
that  state  in  which  it  appeared  to  their  minds.  These 
philosophers  dwell  on  the  inevitability  and  unchangeable- 
ness  of  laws,  on  the  power  of  temperament  and  constitu 
tion,  the  three  goon  or  qualities,  and  the  circumstances 
Dr  birth  and  affinity.  The  end  is  an  immense  consola 
tion  ;  eternal  absorption  in  Brahma.  Their  speculations 
never  venture  beyond  their  own  table-lands,  though 
they  are  high  and  vast  as  they.  Buoyancy,  freedom, 
flexibility,  variety,  possibility,  which  also  are  qualities 
of  the  Unnamed,  they  deal  not  with.  The  undeserved 
reward  is  to  be  earned  by  an  everlasting  moral  drudg 
ery;  the  incalculable  promise  of  the  morrow  is,  as  it 
were,  weighed.  And  who  will  say  that  their  conserva 
tism  has  not  been  effectual?  "Assuredly,"  says  a 
French  translator,  speaking  of  the  antiquity  and  du 
rability  of  the  Chinese  and  Indian  nations,  and  of  the 
wisdom  of  their  legislators,  "  there  are  there  some  ves 
tiges  of  the  eternal  laws  which  govern  tte  world." 
7 


146  A    WEEK. 

Christianity,  on  the  other  hand,  is  humane,  practical, 
and,  in  a  large  sense,  radical.  So  many  years  and  ages 
of  the  gods  those  Eastern  sages  sat  contemplating 
Brahm,  uttering  in  silence  the  mystic  "  Om,"  being  ab 
sorbed  into  the  essence  of  the  Supreme  Being,  never 
going  out  of  themselves,  but  subsiding  farther  and 
deeper  within ;  so  infinitely  wise,  yet  infinitely  stag 
nant  ;  until,  at  last,  in  that  same  Asia,  but  in  the  western 
part  of  it,  appeared  a  youth,  wholly  unforetokl  by  them, 
—  not  being  absorbed  into  Bnihm,  but  bringing  Brahm 
down  to  earth  and  to  mankind;  in  whom  Bruhm  had 
awaked  from  his  long  sleep,  and  exerted  himself,  and 
the  day  began,  —  a  new  avatar.  The  Brahman  had 
never  thought  to  be  a  brother  of  mankind  as  well  as  a 
child  of  God.  Christ  is  the  prince  of  Reformers  and 
Radicals.  Many  expressions  in  the  New  Testament 
come  naturally  to  the  lips  of  all  Protestants,  and  it  fur 
nishes  the  most  pregnant  and  practical  texts.  There  is 
no  harmless  dreaming,  no  wise  speculation  in  it,  but 
everywhere  a  substratum  of  good  sense.  It  never  re 
flects,  but  it  repents.  There  is  no  poetry  in  it,  we  may 
say,  nothing  regarded  in  the  light  of  beauty  merely,  but 
moral  truth  is  its  object.  All  mortals  are  convicted  by 
its  conscience. 

The  New  Testament  is  remarkable  for  its  pure  mo 
rality  ;  the  best  of  the  Hindo  Scripture,  for  its  pure  in 
tellectuality.  The  reader  is  nowhere  raised  into  and 
sustained  in  a  higher,  purer,  or  rarer  region  of  thought 
than  in  the  Bhagvat-Geeta.  Warren  Hastings,  in  his 
sensible  letter  recommending  the  translation  of  this  book 
to  the  Chairman  of  the  East  India  Company,  declares 
the  original  to  be  "  of  a  sublimity  of  conception,  reason 
ing,  and  diction  almost  unequalled,"  and  that  the  writ 


MONDAY.  147 

ings  of  the  Indian  philosophers  "  will  survive  when  the 
British  dominion  in  India  shall  have  long  ceased  to 
exist,  and  when  the  sources  which  it  once  yielded  of 
wealth  and  power  are  lost  to  remembrance."  It  is  un 
questionably  one  of  the  noblest  and  most  sacred  scrip 
tures  which  have  come  down  to  us.  Books  are  to  be 
distinguished  by  the  grandeur  of  their  topics,  even  more 
than  by  the  manner  in  which  they  are  treated.  The 
Oriental  philosophy  approaches,  easily  loftier  themes 
than  the  modern  aspires  to ;  and  no  wonder  if  it  some 
times  prattle  about  them.  It  only  assigns  their  due 
rank  respectively  to  Action  and  Contemplation,  or 
rather  does  full  justice  to  the  latter.  Western  philoso 
phers  have  not  conceived  of  the  significance  of  Contem 
plation  in  their  sense.  Speaking  of  the  spiritual  dis 
cipline  to  which  the  Brahmans  subjected  themselves, 
and  the  wonderful  power  of  abstraction  to  which  they 
attained,  instances  of  which  had  come  under  his  notice, 
Hastings  says :  — 

"  To  those  who  have  never  been  accustomed  to  the  separa 
tion  of  the  mind  from  the  notices  of  the  senses,  it  may  not  be 
easy  to  conceive  by  what  means  such  a  power  is  to  be  at 
tained  ;  since  even  the  most  studious  men  of  our  hemisphere 
will  find  it  difficult  so  to  restrain  their  attention,  but  that  it 
will  wander  to  some  object  of  present  sense  or  recollection ; 
and  even  the  buzzing  of  a  fly  will  sometimes  have  the  power 
to  disturb  it.  But  if  we  are  told  that  there  have  been  men 
«vho  were  successively,  for  ages  past,  in  the  daily  habit  of  ab 
stracted  contemplation,  begun  in  the  earliest  period  of  youth, 
and  continued  in  many  to  the  maturity  of  age,  each  adding 
Borne  portion  of  knowledge  to  the  store  accumulated  by  his 
predecessors ;  it  is  not  assuming  too  much  to  eonclude,  that 
as  the  mind  ever  gathers  strength,  like  che  body,  by  exercise, 
»o  in  such  an  exercise  it  may  in  each  have  acquired  the  fac- 


148  A    WEEK. 

ulty  to  which  they  aspired,  and  that  their  collective  studies 
may  have  led  them  to  the  discovery  of  new  tracts  and  com 
binations  of  sentiment,  totally  different  from  the  doctrines 
with  which  the  learned  of  other  nations  are  acquainted ;  doc 
trines  which,  however  speculative  and  subtle,  still  as  they 
possess  the  advantage  of  being  derived  from  a  source  so  free 
from  every  adventitious  mixture,  may  be  equally  founded  in 
truth  with  the  most  simple  of  our  own." 

"  The  forsaking  of  works  "  was  taught  by  Kreeshna 
to  the  most  ancient  of  men,  and  banded  down  from  age 
to  age, 

"  until  at  length,  in  the  course  of  time,  the  mighty  art  was 
lost. 

"  In  wisdom  is  to  be  found  every  work  without  exception,* 
a  ays  Kreeshna. 

"  Although  thou  wert  the  greatest  of  all  offenders,  thou 
shalt  be  able  to  cross  the  gulf  of  sin  with  the  bark  of  wis 
dom." 

"  There  is  not  anything  in  this  world  to  be  compared  with 
wisdom  for  purity." 

"  The  action  stands  at  a  distance  inferior  to  the  application 
of  wisdom." 

The  wisdom  of  a  Moonee  "  is  confirmed,  when,  like  the  tor 
toise,  he  can  draw  in  all  his  members,  and  restrain  them  from 
their  wonted  purposes." 

u  Children  only,  and  not  the  learned,  speak  of  the  specula 
tive  and  the  practical  doctrines  as  two.  They  are  but  one. 
For  both  obtain  the  selfsame  end,  and  the  place  which  is 
gained  by  the  followers  of  the  one  is  gained  by  the  followers 
of  the  other." 

"  The  man  enjoyeth  not  freedom  from  action,  from  the 
non-commencement  of  that  which  he  hath  to  do ;  nor  dotb 
he  obtain  happiness  from  a  total  inactivity.  No  one  ever 
resteth  a  moment  inactive.  Every  man  is  involuntarily  urged 
to  act  by  those  principle!  which  are  inherent  in  his  nature; 


MONDAY.  149 

The  man  who  restraineth  his  active  faculties,  and  sitteth 
down  with  his  mind  attentive  to  the  objects  of  his  senses,  is 
called  one  of  an  astrayed  soul,  and  the  practiser  of  deceit. 
So  the  man  is  praised,  who,  having  subdued  all  his  passions, 
performeth  with  his  active  faculties  all  the  functions  of  life, 
unconcerned  about  the  event." 

"  Let  the  motive  be  in  the  deed  and  not  in  the  event.  Be 
not  one  whose  motive  for  action  is  the  hope  of  reward.  Let 
not  thy  life  be  spent  in  inaction." 

"  For  the  man  who  doeth  that  which  he  hath  to  do,  without 
affection,  obtaineth  the  Supreme." 

"  He  who  may  behold,  as  it  were  inaction  in  action,  and 
action  in  inaction,  is  wise  amongst  mankind.  He  is  a  perfect 
performer  of  all  duty." 

"  Wise  men  call  him  a  Pandeet,  whose  every  undertaking 
is  free  from  the  idea  of  desire,  and  whose  actions  are  con- 
Burned  by  the  fire  of  wisdom.  He  abandoneth  the  desire  of  a 
reward  of  his  actions ;  he  is  always  contented  and  indepen 
dent  ;  and  although  he  may  be  engaged  in  a  work,  he,  as  it 
were,  doeth  nothing." 

"  He  is  both  a  Yogce  and  a  Sannyasee  who  performeth 
that  which  he  hath  to  do  independent  of  the  fruit  thereof; 
ittot  he  who  liveth  without  the  sacrificial  fire  and  without 
action." 

"  He  who  enjoyeth  but  the  Amreota  which  is  left  of  hie  of 
ferings,  obtaineth  the  eternal  spirit  of  Brahm,  the  Supreme." 

What,  after  all,  does  the  practicalness  of  life  amount 
10?  The  things  immediate  to  be  done  are  very  trivial. 
I  could  postpone  them  all  to  hear  this  locust  sing.  The 
mosfc  glorious  fact  in  my  experience  is  not  anything  that 
I  have  done  or  may  hope  to  do,  but  a  transient  thought, 
or  vision,  or  dream,  which  I  have  had.  I  would  give 
all  the  wealth  of  the  world,  and  all  the  deeds  of  all  the 
neroes,  for  one  true  vision.  But  hjw  can  I  vcommuni- 
cate  with  the  gods  who  am  a  pencil- maker  on  the  earth, 
And  not  be  insane  ? 


150  A    WEEK. 

44 1  am  the  same  to  all  mankind,"  says  Kreeshna ;  "  there  ii 
not  one  who  is  worthy  of  my  love  or  hatred." 

This  teaching  is  not  practical  in  the  sense  in  which 
the  New  Testament  is.  It  is  not  always  sound  sense  in 
practice.  The  Brahman  never  proposes  courageously 
to  assault  evil,  but  patiently  to  starve  it  out.  His  active 
faculties  are  paralyzed  by  the  idea  of  cast,  of  impassable 
limits,  of  destiny  and  the  tyranny  of  time.  Kreeshna'a 
argument,  it  must  be  allowed,  is  defective.  No  sufficient 
reason  is  given  why  Arjoon  should  fight.  Arjoon  may 
be  convinced,  but  the  reader  is  not,  for  his  judgment  is 
not  "formed  upon  the  speculative  doctrines  of  the 
Sankhya  Sastra"  "  Seek  an  asylum  in  wisdom  alone " ; 
but  what  is  wisdom  to  a  Western  mind  ?  The  duty 
of  which  he  speaks  is  an  arbitrary  one.  When  was  it 
established  ?  The  Brahman's  virtue  consists  in  doing, 
not  right,  but  arbitrary  things.  What  is  that  which  a 
man  "hath  to  do"?  What  is  "action"?  What  are 
the  "  settled  functions  "  ?  What  is  "  a  man's  own  re 
ligion,"  which  is  so  much  better  than  another's  ?  What 
is  "  a  man's  own  particular  calling "  ?  What  are  the 
duties  which  are  appointed  by  one's  birth  ?  It  is  a  de 
fence  of  the  institution  of  casts,  of  what  is  called  the 
"  natural  duty  "  of  the  Kshetree,  or  soldier,  "  to  attach 
himself  to  the  discipline,'1  "  not  to  flee  from  the  field," 
and  the  like.  But  they  who  are  unconcerned  about  the 
consequences  of  their  actions  are  not  therefore  uncon 
cerned  about  their  actions. 

Behold  the  difference  between  the  Oriental  and  the 
Occidental.    The  former  has  nothing  to  do  in  this  world 
the  Litter  is  full  of  activity.     The  one  looks  in  the  sun 
till  his  eyes  are  put  out ;  the  other  follows  him  prone  in 
his  westward  course.     There  is  such  a  thin?  as  caste, 


MONDAY.  151 

even  in  the  West ;  I. it  it  is  comparatively  faint ;  it  is 
conservatism  here.  It  says,  forsake  not  your  calling, 
outrage  no  institution,  use  no  violence,  rend  no  bonds  ; 
the  State  is  thy  parent.  Its  rirtue  or  manhood  is  wholly 
filial.  There  is  a  struggle  between  the  Oriental  and  Oc 
cidental  in  every  nation  ;  some  who  would  be  forever 
contemplating  the  sun,  and  some  who  are  hastening  to 
ward  the  sunset.  The  former  class  says  to  the  latter, 
When  you  have  reached  the  sunset,  you  will  be  no 
nearer  to  the  sun.  To  which  the  latter  replies,  But  we 
BO  prolong  the  day.  The  former  "  walketh  but  in  that 
night,  when  all  things  go  to  rest  the  night  of  time.  The 
contemplative  Moonee  sleepeth  but  in  the  day  of  time, 
when  all  things  wake." 

To  conclude  these  extracts,  I  can  say,  in  the  words  of 
Sanjay,  "  As,  O  mighty  Prince !  I  recollect  again  and 
again  this  holy  and  wonderful  dialogue  of  Kreeshna  and 
Arjoon,  I  continue  more  and  more  to  rejoice ;  and  as  I 
recall  to  my  memory  the  more  than  miraculous  form  of 
Haree,  my  astonishment  is  great,  and  I  marvel  and  re 
joice  again  and  again  !  Wherever  Kreeshna  the  God 
of  devotion  may  be,  wherever  Arjoon  the  mighty  bow 
man  may  be,  there  too,  without  doubt,  are  fortune,  riches, 
victory,  and  good  conduct.  This  is  my  firm  belief." 

I  would  say  to  the  readers  of  Scriptures,  if  they  wish 
for  a  good  book,  read  the  Bhagvat-Geeta,  an  episode  to 
the  Mahabharat,  said  to  have  been  written  by  Kreeshna 
Dwypayen  Veias,  —  known  to  have  been  written  by 

,  more  than  four  thousand  years  ago,  —  it  matters 

not  whether  three  or  four,  or  when,  —  translated  by 
Charles  Wilkins.  It  deserves  to  Le  read  with  reverence 
even  by  Yankees,  as  a  part  of  the  sacred  writings  of  a 
devout  people  ;  and  the  intelligent  Hebrew  will  rejoice 


152  A    WEEK. 

to  find  in  it  a  moral  grandeur  and  sublimity  akin  to  those 
of  his  own  Scriptures. 

To  an  American  reader,  who,  by  the  advantage  of  his 
position,  can  see  over  that  strip  of  Atlantic  coast  to  Asia 
and  the  Pacific,  who,  as  it  were,  sees  the  shore  slope  up 
ward  over  the  Alps  to  the  Himmaleh  Mountains,  the 
comparatively  recent  literature  of  Europe  often  appears 
partial  and  clannish,  and,  notwithstanding  the  limited 
range  of  his  own  sympathies  and  studies,  the  European 
writer  who  presumes  that  he  is  speaking  for  the  world, 
is  perceived  by  him  to  speak  only  for  that  corner  of  it 
which  he  inhabits.  One  of  the  rarest  of  England's 
scholars  and  critics,  in  his  classification  of  the  worthies 
of  the  world,  betrays  the  narrowness  of  his  European 
culture  and  the  exclusiveness  of  his  reading.  None  of 
her  children  has  done  justice  to  the  poets  and  philoso 
phers  of  Persia  or  of  India.  They  have  even  been  bet 
ter  known  to  her  merchant  scholars  than  to  her  poets 
and  thinkers  by  profession.  You  may  look  in  vain 
through  English  poetry  for  a  single  memorable  verse 
inspired  by  these  themes.  Nor  is  Germany  to  be  ex- 
cepted,  though  her  philological  industry  is  indirectly 
serving  the  cause  of  philosophy  and  poetry.  Even 
Goethe  wanted  that  universality  of  genius  which  could 
have  appreciated  the  philosophy  of  India,  if  he  had  more 
nearly  approached  it  His  genius  was  more  practical, 
dwelling  much  more  in  the  regions  of  the  understanding, 
and  was  less  native  to  contemplation  than  the  genius  of 
those  sages.  It  is  remarkable  that  Homer  and  a  few 
Hebrews  are  the  most  Oriental  names  which  modern 
Europe,  whose  literature  has  taken  its  rise  since  the  de- 
iline  of  the  Persian,  has  admitted  into  her  list  of  Wor 
thies,  and  perhaps  the  worthiest  of  mankind,  and  the 


.    MONDAY.  153 

fiithers  of  modern  thinking,  —  for  the  contemplations  of 
those  Indian  sages  have  influenced,  and  still  influence, 
the  intellectual  development  of  mankind,  —  whose  works 
even  yet  survive  in  wonderful  completeness,  are,  for  the 
most  part,  not  recognized  as  ever  having  existed.  If  the 
lions  had  been  the  painters  it  would  have  been  other 
wise.  In  every  one's  youthful  dreams  philosophy  is  still 
vaguely  but  inseparably,  and  with  singular  truth,  associ 
ated  with  the  East,  nor  do  after  years  discover  its  local 
habitation  in  the  Western  world.  In  comparison  with 
the  philosophers  of  the  East,  we  may  say  that  modern 
Europe  has  yet  given  birth  to  none.  Beside  the  vast 
and  cosmogonal  philosophy  of  the  Bhagvat-Geeta,  even 
our  Shakespeare  seems  sometimes  youthfully  green  and 
practical  merely.  Some  of  these  sublime  sentences,  as 
the  Chaldoean  oracles  of  Zoroaster,  still  surviving  after 
a  thousand  revolutions  and  translations,  alone  make  us 
doubt  if  the  poetic  form  and  dress  are  not  transitory,  and 
not  essential  to  the  most  effective  and  enduring  expres 
sion  of  thought.  Ex  oriente  lux  may  still  be  the  motto 
of  scholars,  for  the  Western  world  has  not  yet  derived 
from  the  East  all  the  light  which  it  is  destined  to  receive 
thence. 

It  would  be  worthy  of  the  age  to  print  together  the 
collected  Scriptures  or  Sacred  Writings  of  the  several 
nations,  the  Chinese,  the  Hindoos,  the  Persians,  the 
Hebrews,  and  others,  as  the  Scripture  of  mankind.  The 
New  Testament  is  still,  perhaps,  too  much  on  the  lips 
and  in  the  hearts  of  men  to  be  called  a  Scripture  in  this 
sense.  Such  a  juxtaposition  and  comparison  might  help 
to  liberalize  the  faith  of  men.  This  is  a  work  which 
Time  will  surely  edit,  reserved  to  crown  the  labors  of  the 
crinting-press.  This  would  be  the  Bible,  or  Book  of 
7* 


104  A    WEEK. 

Books,  which  let  the  missionaries  carry  to  the  uttermost 
parts  of  the  earth. 

While  engaged  in  these  reflections,  thinking  ourselves 
the  only  navigators  of  these  waters,  suddenly  a  canal- 
boat,  with  its  sail  set,  glided  round  a  point  before  us, 
like  some  huge  river  beast,  and  changed  the  scene  in  an 
instant ;  and  then  another  and  another  glided  into  sight, 
and  we  found  ourselves  in  the  current  of  commerce  once 
more.  So  we  threw  our  rinds  in  the  water  for  the  fishes 
to  nibble,  and  added  our  breath  to  the  life  of  living  men. 
Little  did  we  think,  in  the  distant  garden  in  which  we 
had  planted  the  seed  and  reared  this  fruit,  where  it 
would  be  eaten.  Our  melons  lay  at  home  on  the  sandy 
bottom  of  the  Merrimack,  and  our  potatoes  in  the  sun 
and  water  at  the  bottom  of  the  boat  looked  like  a  fruit 
of  the  country.  Soon,  however,  we  were  delivered  from 
this  fleet  of  junks,  and  possessed  the  river  in  solitude, 
once  more  rowing  steadily  upward  through  the  noon, 
between  the  territories  of  Nashua  on  the  one  hand,  and 
Hudson,  once  Nottingham,  on  the  other.  From  time  to 
time  we  scared  up  a  kingfisher  or  a  summer  duck,  the 
former  flying  rather  by  vigorous  impulses  than  by  steady 
and  patient  steering  with  that  short  rudder  of  his,  sound 
ing  his  rattle  along  the  fluvial  street. 

Erelong  another  scow  hove  in  sight,  creeping  down 
the  river ;  and  hailing  it,  we  attached  ourselves  to  ita 
side,  and  floated  back  in  company,  chatting  with  the 
boatmen,  and  obtaining  a  draught  of  cooler  water  from 
their  jug.  They  appeared  to  be  green  hands  from  far 
among  the  hills,  who  had  taken  this  means  to  get  to  the 
seaboard,  and  see  the  world;  and  would  possibly  visi 
the  Falkland  Isles,  and  the  China  seas,  before  they  ngaia 


MONDAY.  l,r)5 

saw  the  waters  of  the  Merrimack,  or,  perchance,  they 
would  not  return  this  way  forever.  They  had  already 
embarked  the  private  interests  of  the  landsman  in  the 
larger  venture  of  the  race,  and  were  ready  to  mess  with 
mankind,  reserving  only  the  till  of  a  chest  to  themselves. 
But  they  too  were  soon  lost  behind  a  point,  and  we  went 
croaking  on  our  way  alone.  What  grievance  has  its 
root  among  the  New  Hampshire  hills  ?  we  asked ;  what 
is  wanting  to  human  life  here,  that  these  men  should 
make  such  haste  to  the  antipodes?  We  prayed  that 
their  bright  anticipations  might  not  be  rudely  disap 
pointed. 

Though  all  tho  fates  should  prove  unkind, 

Leave  not  your  native  land  behind. 

The  ship,  becalmed,  at  length  stands  still;  ' 

Tho  steed  must  rest  beneath  the  hill; 

But  swiftly  still  our  fortunes  pace 

To  find  us  out  in  every  place. 

The  vessel,  though  her  masts  be  firm, 
Beneath  her  copper  bears  a  worm ; 
Around  the  cape,  across  the  line, 
Till  fields  of  ice  her  course  confine; 
It  matters  not  how  smooth  the  breeze, 
How  shallow  or  how  deep  the  seas, 
Whether  she  bears  Manilla  twine, 
Or  in  her  hold  Madeira  wine, 
Or  China  teas,  or  Spanish  hides, 
In  port  or  quarantine  she  rides ; 
Far  from  New  England's  blustering  shore, 
New  England's  worm  her  hulk  shall  bore, 
And  sink  her  in  the  Indian  seas, 
Twine,  wine,  and  hides,  and  China  teas. 

We  passed  a  small  desert  here  on  the  east  bank, 
between  Tyngsborough  and  Hudson,  which  was  interest 
ing  and  even  refreshing  to  our  eyes  in  the  midst  of 
.he  almost  universal  greenness.  This  sand  was  indeed 


156  A    WEEK. 

somewhat  impressive  and  beautiful  to  us.  A  very  old 
inhabitant,  who  was  at  work  in  a  field  on  I  he  Nashua 
side,  told  us  that  he  remembered  when  corn  and  grain 
grew  there,  and  it  was  a  cultivated  field.  But  at  length 
the  fishermen,  for  this  was  a  fishing  place,  pulled  up  the 
bushes  on  the  shore,  for  greater  convenience  in  hauling 
their  seines,  and  when  the  bank  was  thus  broken,  the 
wind  began  to  blow  up  the  sand  from  the  shore,  until  at 
length  it  had  covered  about  fifteen  acres  several  feet 
deep.  We  saw  near  the  river,  where  the  sand  was 
blown  off  down  to  some  ancient  surface,  the  foundation 
of  an  Indian  wigwam  exposed,  a  perfect  circle  of  burnt 
stones,  four  or  five  feet  in  diameter,  mingled  with  fine 
charcoal,  and  the  bones  of  small  animals  which  had  been 
preserved  in  the  sand.  The  surrounding  sand  was 
Bprinkled  with  other  burnt  stones  on  which  their  fires 
had  been  built,  as  well  as  with  flakes  of  arrow-head 
etone,  and  we  found  one  perfect  arrow-head.  In  one 
place  we  noticed  where  an  Indian  had  sat  to  manufacture 
arrow-heads  out  of  quartz,  and  the  sand  was  sprinkled 
with  a  quart  of  small  glass-like  chips  about  as  big  as  a 
fourpence,  which  he  had  broken  off  in  his  work.  Here, 
then,  the  Indians  must  have  fished  before  the  whites 
arrived.  There  was  another  similar  sandy  tract  about 
half  a  mile  above  this. 

Still  the  noon  prevailed,  and  we  turned  the  prow 
aside  to  bathe,  and  recline  ourselves  under  some  button- 
woods,  by  a  ledge  of  rocks,  in  a  retired  pasture  sloping 
to  the  water's  edge,  and  skirted  with  pines  and  hazels, 
in  the  town  of  Hudson.  Still  had  India,  and  that  old 
noontide  philosophy,  the  better  part  of  our  thoughts. 

It  is  always  singular,  but  encouraging,  to  meet  with 


MONl'AY  157 

common  sense  in  very  old  books,  as  the  Heetopades  of 
Veeshnoo  Sarma;  a  playful  wisdom  which  has  eyes 
behind  as  well  as  before,  and  oversees  itself.  It  asserts 
their  health  and  independence  of  the  experience  of  later 
times.  This  pledge  of  sanity  cannot  be  spared  in  a 
book,  that  it  sometimes  pleasantly  reflect  upon  itself. 
The  story  and  fabulous  portion  of  this  book  winds 
loosely  from  sentence  to  sentence  as  so  many  oases  in  a 
desert,  and  is  as  indistinct  as  a  camel's  track  between 
Mourzouk  and  Darfour.  It  is  a  comment  on  the  flow 
and  freshet  of  modern  books.  The  reader  leaps  from 
sentence  to  sentence,  as  from  one  stepping-stone  to 
another,  while  the  stream  of  the  story  rushes  past  unre 
garded.  The  Bhagvat-Geeta  is  less  sententious  and 
poetic,  perhaps,  but  still  more  wonderfully  sustained  and 
developed.  Its  sanity  and  sublimity  have  impressed  the 
minds  even  of  soldiers  and  merchants.  It  is  the  charac 
teristic  of  great  poems  that  they  will  yield  of  their  sense 
in  due  proportion  to  the  hasty  and  the  deliberate  reader. 
To  the  practical  they  will  be  common  sense,  and  to  the 
wise  wisdom ;  as  either  the  traveller  may  wet  his  lips, 
or  an  army  may  fill  its  water-casks  at  a  full  stream. 

One  of  the  most  attractive  of  those  ancient  books  that 
I  have  met  with  is  the  Laws  of  Menu.  According  to 
Sir  William  Jones,  "Vyasa,  the  son  of  Parasara,  has 
decided  that  the  Veda,  with  its  An  gas,  or  the  six  compo 
sitions  deduced  from  it,  the  revealed  system  of  medicine, 
the  Puranas  or  sacred  histories,  and  the  code  of  Menu, 
were  four  works  of  supreme  authority,  which  ought 
never  to  be  shaken  by  arguments  merely  human."  The 
»ast  is  believed  by  the  Hindoos  "  to  have  been  promulged 
in  the  beginning  of  time,  by  Menu,  son  or  grandson  of 
Brahma,"  and  "  first  of  created  beings  "  ;  and  Brahma  b 


158  A    WEEK. 

laid  to  have  "taught  his  laws  to  Menu  in  a  hundred 
thousand  verses,  which  Menu  explained  to  the  primitive 
world  in  the  very  words  of  the  book  now  translated." 
Others  affirm  that  they  have  undergone  successive  abridg 
ments  for  the  convenience  of  mortals,  "  while  the  goda 
of  the  lower  heaven  and  the  band  of  celestial  musicians 
are  engaged  in  studying  the  primary  code."  —  u  A  num 
ber  of  glosses  or  comments  on  Menu  were  composed  by 
the  Munis,  or  old  philosophers,  whose  treatises,  together 
with  that  before  us,  constitute  the  Dherma  Sastra,  in  a 
collective  sense,  or  Body  of  Law."  Culluca  Bhatta  was 
one  of  the  more  modern  of  these. 

Every  sacred  book,  successively,  has  been  accepted  in 
the  faith  that  it  was  to  be  the  final  resting-place  of  the 
sojourning  soul ;  but  after  all,  it  was  but  a  caravansary 
which  supplied  refreshment  to  the  traveller,  and  directed 
him  farther  on  his  way  to  Isphahan  or  Bagdat.  Thank 
God,  no  Hindoo  tyranny  prevailed  at  the  framing  of  the 
world,  but  we  are  freemen  of  the  universe,  and  not  sen 
tenced  to  any  caste. 

I  know  of  no  book  which  has  come  down  to  us  with 
grander  pretensions  than  this,  and  it  is  so  impersonal  and 
sincere  that  it  is  never  offensive  nor  ridiculous.  Compare 
the  modes  in  which  modern  literature  is  advertised  with 
the  prospectus  of  this  book,  and  think  what  a  reading 
public  it  addresses,  what  criticism  it  expects.  It  seems 
to  have  been  uttered  from  some  eastern  summit,  with  a 
sober  morning  prescience  in  the  dawn  of  time,  and  you 
cannot  read  a  sentence  without  being  elevated  as  upon 
the  table-land  of  the  Ghauts.  It  has  such  a  rhythm  as 
the  winds  of  the  desert,  such  a  tide  as  the  Ganges,  and 
is  as  superior  to  criticism  as  the  Himmaleh  Mountains, 
Its  tone  is  of  such  univluxed  fibie,  that  even  at  this  Jat« 


MONDAY.  159 

iay,  unborn  by  time,  it  wears  the  English  and  the  San 
scrit  dress  indifferently ;  and  its  fixed  sentences  keep  up 
their  distant  fires  still,  like  the  stars,  by  whose  dissipated 
rays  this  lower  world  is  illumined.  The  whole  book  by 
noble  gestures  and  inclinations  renders  many  words 
unnecessary.  English  sense  has  toiled,  but  Hindoo 
wisdom  never  perspired.  Though  the  sentences  open  R3 
we  read  them,  unexpensively,  and  at  first  almost  un 
meaningly,  as  the  petals  of  a  flower,  they  sometimes 
startle  us  with  that  rare  kind  of  wisdom  which  could 
only  have  been  learned  from  the  most  trivial  experience ; 
but  it  comes  to  us  as  refined  as  the  porcelain  earth  which 
subsides  to  the  bottom  of  the  ocean.  They  are  clean  and 
dry  as  fossil  truths,  which  have  been  exposed  to  the 
elements  for  thousands  of  years,  so  impersonally  and 
scientifically  true  that  they  are  the  ornament  of  the 
parlor  and  the  cabinet.  Any  moral  philosophy  is  ex 
ceedingly  rare.  This  of  Menu  addresses  our  privacy 
more  than  most.  It  is  a  more  private  and  familiar,  and, 
at  the  same  time,  a  more  public  and  universal  word, 
than  is  spoken  in  parlor  or  pulpit  now-a-days.  As  our 
domestic  fowls  are  said  to  have  their  original  in  the 
wild  pheasant  of  India,  so  our  domestic  thoughts  have 
their  prototypes  in  the  thoughts  of  her  philosophers. 
We  are  dabbling  in  the  very  elements  of  our  present 
conventional  and  actual  life ;  as  if  it  were  the  primeval 
conventicle  where  how  to  eat,  and  to  drink,  and  to  sleep, 
and  maintain  life  with  adequate  dignity  and  sincerity, 
were  the  questions  to  be  decided.  It  is  later  and  more 
intimate  with  us  even  t'nan  the  advice  of  our  nearest 
friends.  And  yet  it  is  true  for  the  widest  horizon,  and 
read  out  of  doors  has  relation  to  the  dim  mountain  line, 
tod  is  native  and  aboriginal  there.  Most  books  belong 


160  A    WEEK. 

to  the  house  and  street  only,  and  in  the  fields  their 
leaves  feel  very  thin.  They  are  bare  and  obvious,  and 
have  no  halo  nor  haze  about  them.  Nature  lies  far  and 
lair  behind  them  all.  But  this,  as  it  proceeds  from,  so 
it  addresses,  what  is  deepest  and  most  abiding  in  man. 
It  belongs  to  the  noontide  of  the  day,  the  midsummer  of 
the  year,  and  after  the  snows  have  melted,  and  the 
waters  evaporated  in  the  spring,  still  its  truth  speaks 
freshly  to  our  experience.  It  helps  the  sun  to  shine, 
and  his  rays  fall  on  its  page  to  illustrate  it.  It  spends 
the  mornings  and  the  evenings,  and  makes  such  an 
impression  on  us  overnight  as  to  awaken  us  before 
dawn,  and  its  influence  lingers  around  us  like  a  fragrance 
late  into  the  day.  It  conveys  a  new  gloss  to  the  mead 
ows  and  the  depths  of  the  wood,  and  its  spirit,  like  a 
more  subtile  ether,  sweeps  along  with  the  prevailing 
winds  of  a  country.  The  very  locusts  and  crickets  of  a 
summer  day  are  but  later  or  earlier  glosses  on  the 
Dherma  Sastra  of  the  Hindoos,  a  continuation  of  the 
sacred  code.  As  we  have  said,  there  is  an  orientalism 
in  the  most  restless  pioneer,  and  the  farthest  west  is  but 
the  farthest  east.  While  we  are  reading  these  sentences, 
this  fair  modern  world  seems  only  a  reprint  of  the  Laws 
of  Menu  with  the  gloss  of  Culluca.  Tried  by  a  New 
England  eye,  or  the  mere  practical  wisdom  of  modern 
times,  they  are  the  oracles  of  a  race  already  in  its  dotage, 
but  held  up  to  the  sky,  which  is  the  only  impartial  and 
incorruptible  ordeal,  they  are  of  a  piece  with  its  depth 
and  serenity,  and  I  am  assured  that  they  will  have  a 
place  and  significance  as  long  as  there  is  a  sky  to  test 
them  by. 

Give  me  a  sentence  which  no  intelligence  can  under 
itaiid.     There  must  be  a  kind  of  life  and  palpitation  ta 


MONDAY.  161 

it,  and  under  its  words  a  kind  of  blood  must  circulate 
forever.  It  is  wonderful  that  this  sound  should  have 
come  down  to  us  from  so  far,  when  the  voice  of  man  can 
be  heard  so  little  way,  and  we  are  not  now  within  ear 
shot  of  any  contemporary.  The  woodcutters  have  here 
felled  an  ancient  pine  forest,  and  brought  to  light  to 
these  distant  hills  a  fair  lake  in  the  southwest ;  and 
now  in  an  instant  it  is  distinctly  shown  to  these  woods 
as  if  its  image  had  travelled  hither  from  eternity. 
Perhaps  these  old  stumps  upon  the  knoll  remember 
when  anciently  this  lake  gleamed  in  the  horizon.  One 
wonders  if  the  bare  earth  itself  did  not  experience  emo 
tion  at  beholding  again  so  fair  a  prospect.  That  fair 
water  lies  there  in  the  sun  thus  revealed,  so  much  the 
prouder  and  fairer  because  its  beauty  needed  not  to  be 
seen.  It  seems  yet  lonely,  sufficient  to  itself,  and  su 
perior  to  observation.  —  So  are  these  old  sentences  like 
serene  lakes  in  the  southwest,  at  length  revealed  to  us, 
which  have  so  long  been  reflecting  our  own  sky  in  their 
bosom. 

The  great  plain  of  India  lies  as  in  a  cup  between  the 
Himmaleh  and  the  ocean  on  the  north  and  south,  and 
die  Brahmapootra  and  Indus,  on  the  east  and  west, 
wherein  the  primeval  race  was  received.  We  will  not 
dispute  the  story.  We  are  pleased  to  read  in  the  nat 
ural  history  of  the  country,  of  the  "  pine,  larch,  spruce, 
and  silver  fir,"  which  cover  the  southern  face  of  the 
Himmaleh  range ;  of  the  "  gooseberry,  raspberry,  straw 
berry,"  which  from  an  imminent  temperate  zone  over 
look  the  torrid  plains.  So  did  this  active  modern  life 
have  even  then  a  foothold  and  lurking-place  in  the 
midst  of  the  stateliness  and  contemplativeness  of  those 
Eastern  plains.  In  another  era  the  "  lily  of  the  valley, 


152  A    WEEK. 

cowslip,  dandelion,"  were  to  work  their  way  down  into 
the  plain,  and  bloom  in  a  level  zone  of  their  own  reach 
ing  round  the  earth.  Already  has  the  era  of  the  tem 
perate  zone  arrived,  the  era  of  the  pine  and  the  oak,  for 
the  palm  and  the  banian  do  not  supply  the  wants  of  this 
age.  The  lichens  on  the  summits  of  the  rocks  will  per 
chance  find  their  level  erelong. 

•As  for  the  tenets  of  the  Brahmans,  we  are  not  so 
much  concerned  to  know  what  doctrines  they  held,  as 
that  they  were  held  by  any.  We  can  tolerate  all  phi 
losophies,  Atomists,  Pneumatologists,  Atheists,  Theists, 
—  Plato,  Aristotle,  Leucippus,  Democritus,  Pythagoras, 
Zoroaster,  and  Confucius.  It  is  the  attitude  of  these 
men,  more  than  any  communication  which  they  make, 
that  attracts  us.  Between  them  and  their  commentators, 
it  is  true,  there  is  an  endless  dispute.  But  if  it  comes  to 
tin?,  that  you  compare  notes,  then  you  are  all  wrong. 
As  it  is,  each  takes  us  up  into  the  serene  heavens, 
whither  the  smallest  bubble  rises  as  surely  as  the 
largest,  and  paints  earth  and  sky  for  us.  Any  sincere 
thought  is  irresistible.  The  very  austerity  of  the  Brah 
mans  is  tempting  to  the  devotional  soul,  as  a  more  re 
fined  and  nobler  luxury.  Wants  so  easily  and  gracefully 
satisfied  seem  like  a  more  refined  pleasure.  Their  con 
ception  of  creation  is  peaceful  as  a  dream.  *'  When 
that  power  awakes,  then  has  this  world  its  full  expan 
sion  ;  but  when  he  slumbers  with  a  tranquil  spirit,  then 
the  whole  system  fades  away."  In  the  very  indistinctness 
of  their  theogony  a  sublime  truth  is  implied.  It  hardly 
aJlows  the  reader  to  rest  in  any  supreme  first  cause,  but 
directly  it  hints  at  a  supremer  still  which  created  the 
last,  and  the  Creator  is  still  behind  increate. 

Nor  will  we  disturb  the  antiquity  of  this  Scripture 


MONDAY.  163 

"  From  fire,  from  air,  and  from  the  sun,"  it  was  "  milked 
out."  One  might  as  well  investigate  the  chronology  of 
light  and  heat.  Let  the  sun  shine.  Menu  understood 
this  matter  best,  when  he  said,  "  Those  best  know  the 
divisions  of  days  and  nights  who  understand  that  the  day 
of  Brahma,  which  endures  to  the  end  of  a  thousand  such 
ages,  [infinite  ages,  nevertheless,  according  to  mortal 
reckoning,]  gives  rise  to  virtuous  exertions ;  and  that  his 
night  endures  as  long  as  his  day."  Indeed,  the  Mussul 
man  and  Tartar  dynasties  are  beyond  all  dating.  Me- 
thinks  I  have  lived  under  them  myself.  In  every  man's 
brain  is  the  Sanscrit.  The  Vedas  and  their  Angas  are 
not  so  ancient  as  serene  contemplation.  Why  will  we  be 
imposed  on  by  antiquity  ?  Is  the  babe  young  ?  When  I 
behold  it,  it  seems  more  venerable  than  the  oldest  man ; 
it  is  more  ancient  than  Nestor  or  the  Sibyls,  and  bears 
the  wrinkles  of  father  Saturn  himself.  And  do  we  live 
but  in  the  present  ?  How  broad  a  line  is  that  ?  I  sit 
now  on  a  stump  whose  rings  number  centuries  of  growth. 
If  I  look  around  I  see  that  the  soil  is  composed  of  the  re 
mains  of  just  such  stumps,  ancestors  to  this.  The  earth 
is  covered  with  mould.  I  thrust  this  stick  many  aeons 
deep  into  its  surface,  and  with  my  heel  make  a  deeper 
furrow  than  the  elements  have  ploughed  here  for  a  thou 
sand  years.  If  I  listen,  I  hear  the  peep  of  frogs  which 
is  older  than  the  slime  of  Egypt,  and  the  distant  drum 
ming  of  a  partridge  on  a  log,  as  if  it  were  the  pulse-beat 
of  the  summer  air.  I  raise  my  fairest  and  freshest 
flowers  in  the  old  mould.  Why,  what  we  would  fain 
call  new  is  not  skin  deep ;  the  earth  is  not  yet  stained 
by  it.  It  is  not  the  fertile  ground  which  we  walk  on, 
but  the  leaves  which  flutter  over  our  heads.  The  newest 
is  but  the  oldest  made  visible  to  our  senses.  When  we 


1C4  A    WEEK. 

dig  up  the  soil  from  a  thousand  feet  below  the  surface, 
we  call  it  new,  and  the  plants  which  spring  from  it 
and  when  our  vision  pierces  deeper  into  space,  and  de 
tects  a  remoter  star,  we  call  that  new  also.  The  place 
where  we  sit  is  called  Hudson,  —  once  it  was  Notting 
ham,  —  once  — 

We  should  read  history  as  little  critically  as  we  con 
sider  the  landscape,  and  be  more  interested  by  the  at 
mospheric  tints  and  various  lights  and  shades  which  the 
intervening  spaces  create,  than  by  its  groundwork  and 
composition.  It  is  the  morning  now  turned  evening  and 
seen  in  the  west,  —  the  same  sun,  but  a  new  light  and 
atmosphere.  Its  beauty  is  like  the  sunset ;  not  a  fresco 
painting  on  a  wall,  flat  and  bounded,  but  atmospheric 
and  roving  or  free.  In  reality,  history  fluctuates  as  the 
face  of  the  landscape  from  morning  to  evening.  What 
is  of  moment  is  its  hue  and  color.  Time  hides  no 
treasures ;  we  want  not  its  then,  but  its  now.  We  do 
not  complain  that  the  mountains  in  the  horizon  are  blue 
and  indistinct ;  they  are  the  more  like  the  heavens. 

Of  what  moment  are  facts  that  can  be  lost,  —  which 
need  to  be  commemorated  ?  The  monument  of  death 
will  outlast  the  memory  of  the  dead.  The  pyramids  do 
not  tell  the  tale  which  was  confided  to  them ;  the  living 
fact  commemorates  itself.  Why  look  in  the  dark  for 
light?  Strictly  speaking,  the  historical  societies  have 
not  recovered  one  fact  from  oblivion,  but  are  themselves, 
instead  of  the  fact,  that  is  lost.  The  researcher  is  more 
memorable  than  the  researched.  The  crowd  stood  ad 
miring  the  mist  and  the  dim  outlines  of  the  trees  seen 
through  it,  when  one  of  their  number  advanced  to  ex 
plore  the  phenomenon,  and  with  fresh  admiration  all  eyei 


MONDAY.  165 

wero  turned  on  his  dimly  retreating  figure.  It  is  as 
tonishing  with  how  little  co-operation  of  the  societies  the 
past  is  remembered.  Its  story  has  indeed  had  another 
muse  than  has  been  assigned  it.  There  is  a  good  in 
stance  of  the  manner  in  which  all  history  began,  in 
Alwakidis'  Arabian  Chronicle :  "  I  was  informed  by 
Ahmed  Almatin  Aljorhami,  who  had  it  from  Rephda 
Ebn  Kais  Aldmiri,  who  had  it  from  Saiph  Ebn  Fab- 
alah  Alcliatquarmi,  who  had  it  from  Thabet  Ebn  Al- 
kamah,  who  said  he  was  present  at  the  action."  These 
fathers  of  history  were  not  anxious  ID  preserve,  but  to 
learn  the  fact ;  and  hence  it  was  not  forgotten.  Critical 
acumen  is  exerted  in  vain  to  uncover  the  past ;  the  past 
cannot  be  presented ;  we  cannot  know  what  we  are  not. 
But  one  veil  hangs  over  past,  present,  and  future,  and  it 
is  the  province  of  the  historian  to  find  out,  not  what 
was,  but  what  is.  Where  a  battle  has  been  fought,  you 
will  find  nothing  but  the  bones  of  men  and  beasts ; 
where  a  battle  is  being  fought,  there  are  hearts  beating. 
We  will  sit  on  a  mound  and  muse,  and  not  try  to  make 
these  skeletons  stand  on  their  legs  again.  Does  Nature 
remember,  think  you,  that  they  were  men,  or  not  rather 
that  they  are  bones  ? 

Ancient  history  has  an  air  of  antiquity.  It  should  be 
more  modern.  It  is  written  as  if  the  spectator  should 
be  thinking  of  the  backside  of  the  picture  on  the  wall, 
or  as  if  the  author  expected  that  the  dead  would  be  his 
readers,  and  wished  to  detail  to  them  their  own  expe 
dience.  Men  seem  anxious  to  accomplish  an  orderly 
retreat  through  the  centuries,  earnestly  rebuilding  the 
works  behind,  as  they  are  battered  down  by  the  en 
croachments  of  time ;  but  while  they  loiter,  they  and 
their  works  both  fall  a  prey  to  the  arch  enemy.  His- 


166  A    WEEK. 

tory  has  neither  the  venerableness  of  antiquity,  nor  the 
freshness  of  the  modern.  It  does  as  if  it  would  go  to 
the  beginning  of  things,  which  natural  history  might 
with  reason  assume  to  do ;  but  consider  the  Universal 
History,  and  then  tell  us,  —  when  did  burdock  and 
plantain  sprout  first?  It  has  been  so  written  for  the 
most  part,  that  the  times  it  describes  are  with  remark 
able  propriety  called  dark  ages.  They  are  dark,  as  one 
has  observed,  because  we  are  so  in  the  dark  about  them. 
The  sun  rarely  shines  in  history,  what  with  the  dust  and 
confusion;  and  when  we  meet  with  any  cheering  fact 
which  implies  the  presence  of  this  luminary,  we  excerpt 
and  modernize  it.  As  when  we  read  in  the  history  of 
the  Saxons  that  Edwin  of  Northumbria  "  caused  stakes 
to  be  fixed  in  the  highways  where  he  had  seen  a  clear 
spring,"  and  "  brazen  dishes  were  chained  to  them  to 
refresh  the  weary  sojourner,  whose  fatigues  Edwin  had 
himself  experienced."  This  is  worth  all  Arthur's  twelve 
battles. 

"  Through  the  shadow  of  the  world  we  sweep  into  the  younger  day : 
Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a  cycle  of  Cathay." 
Than  fifty  years  of  Europe  better  one  New  England  ray! 

Biography,  too,  is  liable  to  the  same  objection ;  it 
should  be  autobiography.  Let  us  not,  as  the  Germans 
advise,  endeavor  to  go  abroad  and  vex  our  bowels  that 
we  may  be  somebody  else  to  explain  him.  If  I  am  not 
I,  who  will  be  ? 

But  it  is  fit  that  the  Past  should  be  dark  ;  though  the 
darkness  is  not  so  much  a  quality  of  the  past  as  of  tra« 
dition.  It  is  not  a  distance  of  time,  but  a  distance  of 
relation,  which  makes  thus  dusky  its  memorials.  What 
is  near  to  the  heart  of  this  generation  is  lair  arid  bright 
still.  Greece  lies  outspread  fair  and  sunshiny  in  floodi 


MONDAY.  167 

of  light,  for  there  is  the  sun  and  daylight  in  her  litera 
ture  and  art.  Homer  does  not  allow  us  to  forget  that 
the  sun  shone,  —  nor  Phidias,  nor  the  Parthenon.  Yet 
no  era  has  been  wholly  dark,  nor  will  we  too  hastily  sub 
mit  to  the  historian,  and  congratulate  ourselves  on  a 
blaze  of  light.  If  we  could  pierce  the  obscurity  of  those 
remote  years,  we  should  find  it  light  enough ;  only  there 
is  not  our  day.  Some  creatures  are  made  to  see  in  the 
dark.  There  has  always  been  the  same  amount  of  light 
in  the  world.  The  new  and  missing  stars,  the  comets 
and  eclipses,  do  not  affect  the  general  illumination,  for 
only  our  glasses  appreciate  them.  The  eyes  of  the  old 
est  fossil  remains,  they  tell  us,  indicate  that  the  same 
laws  of  light  prevailed  then  as  now.  Always  the  laws 
of  light  are  the  same,  but  the  modes  and  degrees  of  see 
ing  vary.  The  gods  are  partial  to  no  era,  but  steadily 
shines  their  light  in  the  heavens,  while  the  eye  of  the 
beholder  is  turned  to  stone.  There  was  but  the  sun  and 
the  eye  from  the  first.  The  ages  have  not  added  a  new 
ray  to  the  one,  nor  altered  a  fibre  of  the  other. 

If  we  will  admit  time  into  our  thoughts  at  all,  the 
mythologies,  those  vestiges  of  ancient  poems,  wrecks  of 
poems,  so  to  speak,  the  world's  inheritance,  still  reflect 
ing  some  of  their  original  splendor,  like  the  fragments  of 
clouds  tinted  by  the  rays  of  the  departed  sun ;  reaching 
into  the  latest  summer  day,  and  allying  this  hour  to  the 
morning  of  creation  ;  as  the  poet  sings  :  — 

"  Fragments  of  the  lofty  strain 

Float  down  the  tide  of  years, 
As  buoyant  on  the  stormy  main 
A  parted  wreck  appears." 

These  are  the  materials  and  hints  for  a  history  of  the 
rise  and  progress  of  the  race ;  how,  from  the  condition 


168  A    WEEK. 

of  ants,  it  arrived  at  the  condition  of  men,  and  arts  were 
gradually  invented.  Let  a  thousand  surmises  shed  some 
light  on  this  story.  We  will  not  be  confined  by  histori 
cal,  even  geological  periods  which  would  allow  us  to 
doubt  of  a  progress  in  human  affairs.  If  we  rise  above 
this  wisdom  for  the  day,  we  shall  expect  that  this  morn 
ing  of  'the  race,  in  which  it  has  been  supplied  with  the 
simplest  necessaries,  with  corn,  and  wine,  and  honey, 
and  oil,  and  fire,  and  articulate  speech,  and  agricultural 
and  other  arts,  reared  up  by  degrees  from  the  condition 
of  ants  to  men,  will  be  succeeded  by  a  day  of  equally 
progressive  splendor ;  that,  in  the  lapse  of  the  divine 
periods,  other  divine  agents  and  godlike  men  will  assist 
to  elevate  the  race  as  much  above  its  present  condition. 
But  we  do  not  know  much  about  it. 

Thus  did  one  voyageur  waking  dream,  while  his  com 
panion  slumbered  on  the  bank.  Suddenly  a  boatman's 
horn  was  heard  echoing  from  shore  to  shore,  to  give  no 
tice  of  his  approach  to  the  farmers  wife  with  whom  he 
was  to  take  his  dinner,  though  in  that  place  only  musk- 
rats  and  kingfishers  seemed  to  hear.  The  current  of  our 
reflections  and  our  slumbers  being  thus  disturbed,  we 
weighed  anchor  once  more. 

As  we  proceeded  on  our  way  in  the  afternoon,  the 
western  bank  became  lower,  or  receded  farther  from  the 
channel  in  some  places,  leaving  a  few  trees  only  to  fringe 
the  water's  edge ;  while  the  eastern  rose  abruptly  here 
and  there  into  wooded  hills  fifty  or  sixty  feet  high.  The 
bass,  Tilia  Americana,  also  called  the  lime  or  linden, 
which  was  a  new  tree  to  us,  overhung  the  water  with 
its  broad  and  rounded  leaf,  interspersed  with  clusters  of 
email  hard  berries  now  nearly  ripe,  and  made  an  agree* 


MONDAY.  1G9 

able  shade  for  us  sailors.  The  inner  bark  of  this  genus 
is  the  bast,  the  material  of  the  fisherman's  matting,  and 
the  ropes  and  peasant's  shoes  of  which  the  Russians 
make  so  much  use,  and  also  of  nets  and  a  coarse  cloth 
in  some  places.  According  to  poets,  this  was  once 
Philyra,  one  of  the  Oceanides.  The  ancients  are  said 
to  have  used  its  bark  for  the  roofs  of  cottages,  for  bas 
kets,  and  for  a  kind  of  paper  called  Philyra.  They  also 
made  bucklers  of  its  wood,  "  on  account  of  its  flexibility, 
lightness,  and  resiliency."  It  was  once  much  used  for 
carving,  and  is  still  in  demand  for  sounding-boards  of 
piano-fortes  and  panels  of  carriages,  and  for  various  uses 
for  which  toughness  and  flexibility  are  required.  Baskets 
and  cradles  are  made  of  the  twigs.  Its  sap  affords 
sugar,  and  the  honey  made  from  its  flowers  is  said  to  be 
preferred  to  any  other.  Its  leaves  are  in  some  coun 
tries  given  to  cattle,  a  kind  of  chocolate  has  been  made 
of  its  fruit,  a  medicine  has  been  prepared  from  an  infu 
sion  of  its  flowers,  and  finally,  the  charcoal  made  of  its 
wood  is  greatly  valued  for  gunpowder. 

The  sight  of  this  tree  reminded  us  that  we  had 
reached  a  strange  land  to  us.  As  we  sailed  under  this 
canopy  of  leaves  we  saw  the  sky  through  its  chinks,  and, 
as  it  were,  the  meaning  and  idea  of  the  tree  stamped  in 
a  thousand  hieroglyphics  on  the  heavens.  The  universe 
is  so  aptly  fitted  to  our  organization  that  the  eye  wan 
ders  and  reposes  at  the  same  time.  On  every  side  there 
is  something  to  soothe  and  refresh  this  sense.  Look  up 
at  the  tree-tops  and  see  how  finely  Nature  finishes  off 
her  work  there.  See  how  the  pines  spire  without  end 
higher  and  higher,  and  make  a  graceful  fringe  to  the 
earth.  And  who  shall  count  the  finer  cobwebs  that  soar 
and  float  away  from  their  utmost  top>,  and  the  myriad 


170  A     WEKK. 

insects  that  dodge  between  them.  Leaves  are  of  more 
various  forms  than  the  alphabets  of  all  languages  put 
together ;  of  the  oaks  alone  there  are  hardly  two  alike, 
md  each  expresses  its  own  character. 

In  all  her  products  Nature  only  develops  her  simplest 
germs.  One  would  say  that  it  was  no  great  stretch  of 
invention  to  create  birds.  The  hawk,  which  now  takes 
his  flight  over  the  top  of  the  wood,  was  at  first,  per 
chance,  only  a  leaf  which  fluttered  in  its  aisles.  From 
rustling  leaves  she  came  in  the  course  of  ages  to  the 
loftier  flight  and  clear  carol  of  the  bird. 

Salmon  Brook  comes  in  from  the  west  under  the  rail 
road,  a  mile  and  a  half  below  the  village  of  Nashua. 
We  rowed  up  far  enough  into  the  meadows  which  bor 
der  it  to  learn  its  piscatorial  history  from  a  haymaker 
on  its  banks.  He  told  us  that  the  silver  eel  was  for 
merly  abundant  here,  and  pointed  to  some  sunken  creels 
at  its  mouth.  This  man's  memory  and  imagination  were 
fertile  in  fishermen's  tales  of  floating  isles  in  bottomless 
ponds,  and  of  lakes  mysteriously  stocked  with  fishes,  and 
would  have  kept  us  till  nightfall  to  listen,  but  we  could 
not  afford  to  loiter  in  this  roadstead,  and  so  stood  out  to 
our  sea  again.  Though  we  never  trod  in  those  mead 
ows,  but  only  touched  their  margin  with  our  hands,  we 
still  retain  a  pleasant  memory  of  them. 

Salmon  Brook,  whose  name  is  said  to  be  a  translation 
from  the  Indian,  was  a  favorite  haunt  of  the  aborigines. 
Here,  too,  the  first  white  settlers  of  Nashua  planted,  and 
Borne  dents  in  the  earth  where  their  houses  stood  and 
the  wrecks  of  ancient  apple-trees  are  still  visible.  About 
one  mile  up  this  stream  stood  the  house  of  old  John 
Lovewell,  who  was  an  ensign  in  the  army  of  Oliver 
Cromwell,  and  the  father  of  "famous  Captain  Lovo 


MONDAY.  171 

tvell."  He  settled  here  before  1690,  and  died  about 
1754,  at  the  age  of  one  hundred  and  twenty  years.  He 
is  thought  to  have  been  engaged  in  the  famous  Narra- 
gansett  swamp  fight,  which  took  place  in  1675,  before 
he  came  here.  The  Indians  are  said  to  have  spared  him 
in  succeeding  wars  on  account  of  his  kindness  to  them. 
Even  in  1700  he  was  so  old  and  gray-headed  that  his 
scalp  was  worth  nothing,  since  the  French  Governor 
offered  no  bounty  for  such.  I  have  stood  in  the  dent  of 
his  cellar  on  the  bank  of  the  brook,  and  talked  there 
with  one  whose  grandfather  had,  whose  father  might 
have,  talked  with  Lovewell.  Here  also  he  had  a  mill  in 
his  old  age,  and  kept  a  small  store.  He  was  remem 
bered  by  some  who  were  recently  living,  as  a  hale  old 
man  who  drove  the  boys  out  of  his  orchard  with  his 
cane.  Consider  the  triumphs  of  the  mortal  man,  and 
what  poor  trophies  it  would  have  to  show,  to  wit : , —  He 
cobbled  shoes  without  glasses  at  a  hundred,  and  cut  a 
handsome  swath  at  a  hundred  and  five !  Lovewell's 
house  is  said  to  have  been  the  first  which  Mrs.  Dustan 
reached  on  her  escape  from  the  Indians.  Here  proba 
bly  the  hero  of  Pequawket  was  born  and  bred.  Close 
by  may  be  seen  the  cellar  and  the  gravestone  of  Joseph 
Hassell,  who,  as  is  elsewhere  recorded,  with  his  wife 
Anna,  and  son  Benjamin,  and  Mary  Marks,  "  were  slain 
by  our  Indian  enemies  on  September  2d,  [1691,]  in  the 
evening."  As  Gookin  observed  on  a  previous  occasion, 
"  The  Indian  rod  upon  the  English  backs  had  not  yet 
done  God's  errand."  Salmon  Brook  near  its  mouth  is 
Btill  a  solitary  stream,  meandering  through  woods  and 
meadows,  while  the  then  uninhabited  mouth  of  the 
Nashua  now  resounds  with  the  din  of  a  manufacturing 
town. 


172  A    WEEK. 

A  stream  from  Otternic  Pond  in  Hudson  comes  in  just 
nbove  Salmon  Brook,  on  the  opposite  side.  There  was 
a  good  view  of  Uncannunuc,  the  most  conspicuous  moun 
tain  in  these  parts,  from  the  bank  here,  seen  rising  over 
the  west  end  of  the  bridge  above.  We  soon  after  passed 
the  village  of  Nashua,  on  the  river  of  the  same  name, 
where  there  is  a  covered  bridge  over  the  Merrimack. 
The  Nashua,  which  is  one  of  the  largest  tributaries,  flows 
from  Wachusett  Mountain,  through  Lancaster,  Groton, 
and  other  towns,  where  it  has  formed  well-known  elm- 
shaded  meadows,  but  near  its  mouth  it  is  obstructed  by 
falls  and  factories,  and  did  not  tempt  us  to  explore  it. 

Far  away  from  here,  in  Lancaster,  with  another  com 
panion,  I  have  crossed  the  broad  valley  of  the  Nashua, 
over  which  we  had  so  long  looked  westward  from  the 
Concord  hills  without  seeing  it  to  the  blue  mountains  in 
the  horizon.  So  many  streams,  so  many  meadows  and 
woods  and  quiet  dwellings  of  men  had  lain  concealed 
between  us  and  those  Delectable  Mountains ;  —  from  yon 
der  hill  on  the  road  to  Tyngsborough  you  may  get  a  good 
view  of  them.  There  where  it  seemed  uninterrupted 
forest  to  our  youthful  eyes,  between  two  neighboring 
pines  in  the  horizon,  lay  the  valley  of  the  Nashua,  and 
this  very  stream  was  even  then  winding  at  its  bottom, 
and  then,  as  now,  it  was  here  silently  mingling  its  waters 
with  the  Merrimack.  The  clouds  which  floated  over  its 
meadows  and  were  born  there,  seen  far  in  the  west, 
gilded  by  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  had  adorned  a 
thousand  evening  skies  for  us.  But  as  it  were,  by  a 
turf  wall  this  valley  was  concealed,  and  in  our  journey 
;o  those  hills  it  was  first  gradually  revealed  to  us 
Summer  and  winter  our  eyes  had  rested  on  the  dim  out 
line  of  the  mountains,  to  which  distance  and  indistinct* 


MONDAY.  173 

ness  lent  a  grandeur  not  their  own,  so  that  they  served 
to  interpret  all  the  allusions  of  poets  and  travellers. 
Standing  on  the  Concord  Cliffs  we  thus  spoke  our  mind 
to  them :  — 

With  frontier  strength  ye  stand  your  ground, 

With  grand  content  ye  circle  round, 

Tumultuous  silence  for  all  sound, 

Ye  distant  nursery  of  rills, 

Monadnock  and  the  Peterborough  Hills  j  — 

Firm  argument  that  never  stirs, 

Outcircling  the  philosophers,  — 

Like  some  vast  fleet, 

Sailing  through  rain  and  sleet, 

Through  winter's  cold  and  summer's  heat; 

Still  holding  on  upon  your  high  emprise, 

Until  ye  find  a  shore  amid  the  skies; 

Not  skulking  close  to  land, 

With  cargo  contraband, 

For  they  who  sent  a  venture  out  by  ye 

Have  set  the  Sun  to  see 

Their  honesty. 

Ships  of  the  line,  each  one, 

Ye  westward  run, 

Convoying  clouds, 

Which  cluster  in  your  shrouds, 

Always  before  the  gale, 

Under  a  press  of  sail, 

With  weight  of  metal  all  untold,  — 

3<>em  to  feel  ye  in  my  firm  seat  here, 
Immeasurable  depth  of  hold, 
And  breadth  of  beam,  and  length  of  running  gear 

Methinks  ye  take  luxurious  pleasure 

In  your  novel  western  leisure  ; 

So  cool  your  brows  and  freshly  blue, 

As  Time  had  naught  for  ye  to  dc; 

For  ye  lie  at  your  length, 

An  unappropriated  strength, 

Unhewn  primeval  timber, 

For  knees  so  stiff,  for  masts  so  limber; 

The  stock  of  which  new  earths  are  made, 


174  A    WEEK. 

One  day  to  be  our  western  trade, 
Fit  for  the  stanchions  of  a  world 
Which  through  the  seas  of  space  is  tramd. 

While  we  enjoy  a  lingering  ray, 

Ye  still  o'ertop  the  western  day, 

Reposing  yonder  on  God's  croft 

Like  solid  stacks  of  hay  j 

So  bold  a  line  as  ne'er  was  writ 

On  any  page  by  human  wit; 

The  forest  glows  as  if 

An  enemy's  camp-fires  shone 

Along  the  horizon, 

Or  the  day's  funeral  pyre 

Were  lighted  there ; 

Edged  with  silver  and  with  gold, 

The  clouds  hang  o'er  in  damask  fold, 

And  with  such  depth  of  amber  light 

The  west  is  dight, 

Where  still  a  few  rays  slant, 

That  even  Heaven  seems  extravagant 

Watatic  Hill 

Lies  on  the  horizon's  sill 

Like  a  child's  toy  left  overnight, 

And  other  duds  to  left  and  right, 

On  the  earth's  edge,  mountains  and  trees 

Stand  as  they  were  on  air  graven, 

Or  as  the  vessels  in  a  haven 

Await  the  morning  breeze. 

I  fancy  even 

Through  your  defiles  windeth  the  way 

And  yonder  still,  in  spite  of  history's  page, 

Linger  the  golden  and  the  silver  age; 

Upon  the  laboring  gale 

The  news  of  future  centuries  is  brought, 

And  of  new  dynasties  of  thought, 

From  your  remotest  vaie. 

But  special  I  remember  thee, 
Wachusett,  who  like  me 
Standest  alone  without  society. 
Thy  far  blue  eye, 
A  remnant  of  the  sky, 


MONDAY.  175 

Seen  through  the  clearing  or  the  gorge, 

Or  from  the  windows  of  hie  forge, 

Doth  leaven  all  it  passes  by. 

Nothing  is  true 

But  stands  'tween  me  and  you, 

Thou  western  pioneer, 

Who  know'st  not  shame  nor  fear, 

By  venturous  spirit  driven 

Under  the  eaves  of  heaven ; 

And  canst  expand  thee  there, 

And  breathe  enough  of  air? 

Even  beyond  the  West 

Thou  migratest, 

Into  unclouded  tracts, 

Without  a  pilgrim's  axe, 

Cleaving  thy  road  on  high 

With  thy  well-tempered  brow, 

And  mak'st  thyself  a  clearing  in  the  sky. 

Upholding  heaven,  holding  down  earth, 

Thy  pastime  from  thy  birth; 

Not  steadied  by  the  one,  nor  leaning  on  the  other, 

May  I  approve  myself  thy  worthy  brother! 

At  length,  like  Rasselas  and  other  inhabitants  of  happy 
valleys,  we  had  resolved  to  scale  the  blue  wall  which 
bounded  the  western  horizon,  though  not  without  mis 
givings  that  thereafter  no  visible  fairy-land  would  exist 
for  us.  But  it  would  be  long  to  tell  of  our  adventures, 
and  we  have  no  time  this  afternoon,  transporting  our 
selves  in  imagination  up  this  hazy  Nashua  valley,  to  go 
over  again  that  pilgrimage.  We  have  since  made  many 
similar  excursions  to  the  principal  mountains  of  New 
England  and  New  York,  and  even  far  in  the  wilderness, 
and  have  passed  a  night  on  the  summit  of  many  of  them. 
And  now,  when  we  look  again  westward  from  our  native 
bills,  Wachusett  and  Monadnock  have  retreated  once 
more  among  the  blue  and  fabulous  mountains  in  the  ho 
rizon,  though  our  eyes  rest  on  the  very  rocks  on  both  of 


176  A    WEEK. 

them,  where  we  have  pitched  our  tent  for  a  night,  and 
boiled  our  hasty-pudding  amid  the  clouds. 

As  late  as  1724  there  was  no  house  on  the  north  side 
of  the  Nashua,  but  only  scattered  wigwams  and  grisly 
forests  between  this  frontier  and  Canada.  In  September 
of  that  year,  two  men  who  were  engaged  in  making  tur 
pentine  on  that  side,  for  such  were  the  first  enterprises 
in  the  wilderness,  were  taken  captive  and  carried  to 
Canada  by  a  party  of  thirty  Indians.  Ten  of  the  inhab 
itants  of  Dunstable,  going  to  look  for  them,  found  the 
hoops  of  their  barrel  cut,  and  the  turpentine  spread  on 
the  ground.  I  have  been  told  by  an  inhabitant  of 
Tyngsborough,  who  had  the  story  from  his  ancestors,  that 
one  of  these  captives,  when  the  Indians  were  about  to 
upset  his  barrel  of  turpentine,  seized  a  pine  knot  and 
flourishing  it,  swore  so  resolutely  that  he  would  kill  the 
first  who  touched  it,  that  they  refrained,  and  when  at 
length  he  returned  from  Canada  he  found  it  still  stand 
ing.  Perhaps  there  was  more  than  one  barrel.  How 
ever  this  may  have  been,  the  scouts  knew  by  marks  on 
the  trees,  made  with  coal  mixed  with  grease,  that  the 
men  were  not  killed,  but  taken  prisoners.  One  of  the 
company,  named  Farwell,  perceiving  that  the  turpentine 
had  not  done  spreading,  concluded  that  the  Indians  had 
been  gone  but  a  short  time,  and  they  accordingly  went 
in  instant  pursuit.  Contrary  to  the  advice  of  Farwell, 
following  directly  on  their  trail  up  the  Merrimack,  they 
fell  into  an  ambuscade  near  Thornton's  Ferry,  in  the 
present  town  of  Merrimack,  and  nine  were  killed,  only 
one,  Farwell,  escaping  after  a  vigorous  pursuit.  The 
men  of  Dunstable  went  out  and  picked  up  their  bodies, 
and  carried  them  all  down  to  Dunstable  and  buried 


MONDAY.  177 

them.  It  is  almost  word  for  word  as  in  the  Robin  Hood 
ballad:  — 

M  They  carried  these  foresters  into  fair  Nottingham, 

As  many  there  did  know, 
They  digged  them  graves  in  their  churchyard, 
And  they  buried  them  all  a-row." 

Nottingham  is  only  the  other  side  of  the  river,  and  they 
were  not  exactly  all  a-row.  You  may  read  in  the  church 
yard  at  Dunstable,  under  the  "  Memento  Mori,"  and  the 
name  of  one  of  them,  how  they  "  departed  this  life,"  and 

"  This  man  with  seven  more  that  lies  in 
this  grave  was  slew  all  in  a  day  by 
the  Indians." 

The  stones  of  some  others  of  the  company  stand  around 
the  common  grave  with  their  separate  inscriptions. 
Eight  were  buried  here,  but  nine  were  killed,  according 
to  the  best  authorities. 

"  Gentle  river,  gentle  river, 

Lo,  thy  streams  are  stained  with  gore, 
Many  a  brave  and  noble  captain 
Floats  along  thy  willowed  shore. 

*'  All  beside  thy  limpid  waters, 

All  beside  thy  sands  so  bright, 
Indian  Chiefs  and  Christian  warriors 
Joined  in  fierce  and  mortal  fight." 

It  is  related  in  the  History  of  Dunstable,  that  on  the 
return  of  Farwell  the  Indians  were  engaged  by  a  fresh 
party  which  they  compelled  to  retreat,  and  pursued  as 
far  as  the  Nashua,  where  they  fought  across  the  stream 
at  its  mouth.  After  the  departure  of  the  Indians,  the 
figure  of  an  Indian's  head  was  found  carved  by  them  on 
3  large  tree  by  the  shore,  which  circumstance  has  given 
its  name  to  this  part  of  the  village  of  Nashville,  —  the 
u  Indian  Head."  "  It  was  observed  by  some  judicious," 

8*  L 


178  A    WEEK. 

says  Gookin,  referring  to  Philip's  war,  "  that  at  the  be 
ginning  of  the  war  the  English  soldiers  made  a  nothing 
of  the   Indians,  and  many  spake  words  to  this  effect 
that  one  Englishman  was  sufficient  to  chase  ten  Indians ; 
many  reckoned  it  was  no  other  but    Veni,  vidi,  vici.' 
But  we  may  conclude  that  the  judicious  would  by  this 
time  have  made  a  different  observation. 

Farwell  appears  to  have  been  the  only  one  who  had 
studied  his  profession,  and  understood  the  business  of 
hunting  Indians.  He  lived  to  fight  another  day,  for  the 
next  year  he  was  Lovewell's  lieutenant  at  Pequawket, 
but  that  time,  as  we  have  related,  he  left  his  bones  in  the 
wilderness.  His  name  still  reminds  us  of  twilight  days 
and  forest  scouts  on  Indian  trails,  with  an  uneasy  scalp ; 
—  an  indispensable  hero  to  New  England.  As  the 
more  recent  poet  of  Lovewell's  fight  has  sung,  halting  a 
little  but  bravely  still :  — 

"  Then  did  the  crimson  streams  that  flowed 

Seem  like  the  waters  of  the  brook, 

That  brightly  shine,  that  loudly  dash, 

Far  down  the  cliffs  of  Agiochook." 

These  battles  sound  incredible  to  us.  I  think  that 
posterity  will  doubt  if  such  things  ever  were ;  if  our 
bold  ancestors  who  settled  this  land  were  not  struggling 
rather  with  the  forest  shadows,  and  not  with  a  copper- 
colored  race  of  men.  They  were  vapors,  fever  and 
ague  of  the  unsettled  woods.  Now,  only  a  few  arrow 
heads  are  turned  up  by  the  plough.  In  the  Pelasgic, 
the  Etruscan,  or  the  British  story,  there  is  nothing  so 
shadowy  and  unreal. 

It  is  a  wild  and  antiquated  looking  graveyard,  ovei 
grown  with  bushes,  on  the  high-road,  about  a  quarter  of 


MONDAY,  179 

ft  mile  from  and  overlooking  the  Merrimack,  with  a 
deserted  mill-stream  bounding  it  on  one  side,  where  lie 
the  earthly  remains  of  the  ancient  inhabitants  of  Duu- 
Btable.  We  passed  it  three  or  four  miles  below  hen. 
You  may  read  there  the  names  of  Lovewell,  Farwell, 
and  many  others  whose  families  were  distinguished  in 
Indian  warfare.  We  noticed  there  two  large  masses 
of  granite  more  than  a  foot  thick  and  rudely  squared, 
lying  flat  on  the  ground  over  the  remains  of  the  first 
pastor  and  his  wife. 

It  is  remarkable  that  the  dead  lie  everywhere  under 
stones,  — 

"  Strata  jacent  passim  SIM  quaeque  sub"  lapide  — 
corpora,  we  might  say,  if  the  measure  allowed.  When 
the  stone  is  a  slight  one,  it  does  not  oppress  the  spirits 
of  the  traveller  to  meditate  by  it ;  but  these  did  seem  a 
little  heathenish  to  us ;  and  so  are  all  large  monuments 
over  men's  bodies,  from  the  pyramids  down.  A  monu 
ment  should  at  least  be  "  star-y-pointing,"  to  indicate 
whither  the  spirit  is  gone,  and  not  prostrate,  like  the  body 
it  has  deserted.  There  have  been  some  nations  who  could 
do  nothing  but  construct  tombs,  and  these  are  the  only 
traces  which  they  have  left.  They  are  the  heathen. 
But  why  these  stones,  so  upright  and  emphatic,  like 
exclamation-points?  What  was  there  so  remarkable 
that  lived?  Why  should  the  monument  be  so  much 
more  enduring  than  the  fame  which  it  is  designed  to  per 
petuate,  —  a  stone  to  a  bone  ?  "  Here  lies,"  —  "  Here 
lies  " ;  —  why  do  they  not  sometimes  write,  There  rises  ? 
Is  it  a  monument  to  the  body  only  that  is  intended? 
"Having  reached  the  term  of  his  natural  life";  — 
arould  it  not  be  truer  te  say,  Having  reached  the  term 


180  A    WEEK. 

of  his  unnatural  life  ?  The  rarest  quality  in  an  epitaph 
is  truth.  If  any  character  is  given,  it  should  be  aa 
severely  true  as  the  decision  of  the  three  judges  below 
and  not  the  partial  testimony  of  friends.  Friends  and 
contemporaries  should  supply  only  the  name  and  date 
and  leave  it  to  posterity  to  write  the  epitaph. 

Here  lies  an  honest  man, 
Rear-Admiral  Van. 


Faith,  then  ye  have 

Two  in  one  grave, 

For  in  his  favor, 

Here  too  lies  the  Engraver. 

Fame  itself  is  but  an  epitaph  ;  as  late,  as  false,  as  true. 
But  they  only  are  the  true  epitaphs  which  Old  Mortal 
ity  retouches. 

A  man  might  well  pray  that  he  may  not  taboo  or 
curse  any  portion  of  nature  by  being  buried  in  it.  For 
the  most  part,  the  best  man's  spirit  makes  a  fearful 
sprite  to  haunt  his  grave,  and  it  is  therefore  much  to  the 
credit  of  Little  John,  the  famous  follower  of  Robin  Hood, 
and  reflecting  favorably  on  his  character,  that  his  grave 
was  "  long  celebrous  for  the  yielding  of  excellent  whet 
stones."  I  confess  that  I  have  but  little  love  for  such 
collections  as  they  have  at  the  Catacombs,  Pere  la 
Chaise,  Mount  Auburn,  and  even  this  Dunstable  grave 
yard.  At  any  rate,  nothing  but  great  antiquity  can 
make  graveyards  interesting  to  me.  I  have  no  friends 
there.  It  may  be  that  I  am  not  competent  to  write  the 
poetry  of  the  grave.  The  farmer  who  has  skimmed 
his  farm  might  perchance  leave  his  body  to  Nature  tf 
be  ploughed  in,  and  in  some  measure  restore  its  fertility 
We  should  not  retard  but  forward  her  economies. 


MONDAY.  181 

Soon  the  village  of  Nashua  was  out  of  sight,  and  the 
Broods  were  gained  again,  and  we  rowed  slowly  on  be 
fore  sunset,  looking  for  a  solitary  place  in  which  to  spend 
the  night.  A  few  evening  clouds  began  to  be  reflected 
in  the  water  and  the  surface  was  dimpled  only  here  and 
there  by  a  muskrat  crossing  the  stream.  We  camped  at 
length  near  Penichook  Brook,  on  the  confines  of  what 
is  now  Nashville,  by  a  deep  ravine,  under  the  skirts  of 
a  pine  wood,  where  the  dead  pine-leaves  were  our  car 
pet,  and  their  tawny  boughs  stretched  overhead.  But 
fire  and  smoke  soon  tamed  the  scene ;  the  rocks  con 
sented  to  be  our  walls,  and  the  pines  our  roof.  A  wood- 
side  was  already  the  fittest  locality  for  us. 

The  wilderness  is  near  as  well  as  dear  to  every  man. 
Even  the  oldest  villages  are  indebted  to  the  border  of 
wild  wood  which  surrounds  them,  more  than  to  the  gar 
dens  of  men.  There  is  something  indescribably  inspirit 
ing  and  beautiful  in  the  aspect  of  the  forest  skirting  and 
occasionally  jutting  into  the  midst  of  new  towns,  which, 
like  the  sand-heaps  of  fresh  fox-burrows,  have  sprung 
up  in  their  midst.  The  very  uprightness  of  the  pines 
and  maples  asserts  the  ancient  rectitude  and  vigor  of  na 
ture.  Our  lives  need  the  relief  of  such  a  background, 
where  the  pine  flourishes  and  the  jay  still  screams. 

We  had  found  a  safe  harbor  for  our  boat,  and  as  the 
sun  was  setting  carried  up  our  furniture,  arid  soon  ar 
ranged  our  house  upon  the  bank,  and  while  the  kettle 
steamed  at  the  tent  door,  we  chatted  of  distant  friends 
and  of  the*  sights  which  we  were  to  behold,  and  won 
dered  which  way  the  towns  lay  from  us.  Our  cocoa  was 
Boon  boiled,  and  supper  set  upon  our  chest,  and  we 
lengthened  out  this  meal,  like  old  vovageurs,  with  our 
talk.  Meanwhile  we  spread  the  ma},  on  the  ground^ 


182 


A     WKKK. 


and  read  in  the  Gazetteer  when  the  first  settlers  came 
here  and  got  a  township  granted.  Then,  when  supper 
was  done  and  we  had  written  the  journal  of  our  voyage, 
w  2  wrapped  our  buffaloes  about  us  and  lay  down  with 
our  heads  pillowed  on  our  arms  listening  awhile  to  the 
distant  baying  of  a  dog,  or  the  murmurs  of  the  river,  or 
to  the  wind,  which  had  not  gone  to  rest :  — 

The  western  wind  came  lumbering  in, 
Bearing  a  faint  Pacific  din, 
Our  evening  mail,  swift  at  the  call 
Of  its  Postmaster  General ; 
Laden  with  news  from  Californ', 
Whate'er  transpired  hath  since  morn, 
How  wags  the  world  by  brier  and  brake 
From  hence  to  Athabasca  Lake ;  — 

or  half  awake  and  half  asleep,  dreaming  of  a  star  which 
glimmered  through  our  cotton  roof.  Perhaps  at  mid 
night  one  was  awakened  by  a  cricket  shrilly  singing  on 
his  shoulder,  or  by  a  hunting  spider  in  his  eye,  and  was 
lulled  asleep  again  by  some  streamlet  purling  its  way 
along  at  the  bottom  of  a  wooded  and  rocky  ravine  in  our 
neighborhood.  It  was  pleasant  to  lie  with  our  heads  so 
low  in  the  grass,  and  hear  what  a  tinkling  ever-busy 
laboratory  it  was.  A  thousand  little  artisans  beat  on 
their  anvils  all  night  long. 

Far  in  the  night  as  we  were  falling  asleep  on  the  bank 
of  the  Merrimack,  we  heard  some  tyro  beating  a  drum 
incessantly,  in  preparation  for  a  country  muster,  as  we 

learned,  and  we  thought  of  the  line, — 

• 

"  When  the  drum  beat  at  dead  of  night." 

We  could  have  assured  him  that  his  beat  would  be 
answered,  and  the  forces  be  mustered.  Fear  not,  thou 
drummer  of  the  night,  we  too  will  be  there.  Arid  stil 


MONDAY.  183 

he  drummed  on  in  the  silence  and  the  dark.  This  stray 
Bound  from  a  far-off  sphere  came  to  our  ears  from  time 
to  time,  far,  sweet,  and  significant,  and  we  listened  with 
such  an  unprejudiced  sense  as  if  for  the  first  time  we 
heard  at  all.  No  doubt  he  was  an  insignificant  drum 
mer  enough,  but  his  music  afforded  us  a  prime  and  leis 
ure  hour,  and  we  felt  that  we  were  in  season  wholly. 
These  simple  sounds  related  us  to  the  stars.  Ay,  there 
was  a  logic  in  them  so  convincing  that  the  combined 
sense  of  mankind  could  never  make  me  doubt  their  con 
clusions.  I  stop  my  habitual  thinking,  as  if  the  plough 
had  suddenly  run  deeper  in  its  furrow  through  the  crust 
of  the  world.  How  can  I  go  on,  who  have  just  stepped 
over  such  a  bottomless  skylight  in  the  bog  of  my  life. 
Suddenly  old  Time  winked  at  me,  —  Ah,  you  know  me, 
you  rogue,  —  and  news  had  come  that  IT  was  well. 
That  ancient  universe  is  in  such  capital  health,  I  think 
undoubtedly  it  will  never  die.  Heal  yourselves,  doctors ; 
by  God,  I  live. 

Then  idle  Time  ran  gadding  by 

And  left  me  with  Eternity  alone; 
I  hear  beyond  the  range  of  sound, 
I  see  beyond  the  verge  of  sight,  — 

I  see,  smell,  taste,  hear,  feel,  that  everlasting  Something 
to  which  we  are  allied,  at  once  our  maker,  our  abode,  our 
destiny,  our  very  Selves  ;  the  one  historic  truth,  the 
mosc  remarkable  fact  which  can  become  the  distinct  and 
uninvited  subject  of  our  thought,  the  actual  glory  of  the 
universe  ;  the  only  fact  which  a  human  being  cannot 
avoid  recognizing,  or  in  some  way  forget  or  dispense  with. 

It  doth  expand  my  privacies 
To  all,  and  leave  me  single  in  the  crowd. 

I  have  seen  how  the  foundations  of  tlv  world  are  laid, 


184  A    WEEK. 

and  I  have  not  the  least  doubt  that  it  will  stand  a  good 
while. 

Now  chiefly  is  my  natal  hour, 

And  only  now  my  prime  of  life. 

I  will  not  doubt  the  love  untold, 

Which  not  my  worth  nor  want  hath  bought, 

Which  wooed  me  young  and  wooes  me  old, 

And  to  this  evening  hath  me  brought. 

What  are  ears?  what  is  Time?  that  this  particular 
series  of  sounds  called  a  strain  of  music,  an  invisible  and 
fairy  troop  which  never  brushed  the  dew  from  any  mead, 
can  be  wafted  down  through  the  centuries  from  Homer 
to  me,  and  he  have  been  conversant  with  that  same 
aerial  and  mysterious  charm  which  now  so  tingles  my 
ears  ?  What  a  fine  communication  from  age  to  age,  of 
the  fairest  and  noblest  thoughts,  the  aspirations  of  an 
cient  men,  even  such  as  were  never  communicated  by 
speech,  is  music  !  It  is  the  flower  of  language,  thought 
colored  and  curved,  fluent  and  flexible,  its  crystal  foun 
tain  tinged  with  the  sun's  rays,  and  its  purling  rippleg 
reflecting  the  grass  and  the  clouds.  A  strain  of  music 
Teminds  me  of  a  passage  of  the  Vedas,  and  I  associate 
with  it  the  idea  of  infinite  remoteness,  as  well  as  of 
beauty  and  serenity,  for  to  the  senses  that  is  farthest 
from  us  which  addresses  the  greatest  depth  within  us. 
It  teaches  us  again  and  again  to  trust  the  remotest  and 
finest  as  the  divinest  instinct,  and  makes  a  dream  our 
only  real  experience.  We  feel  a  sad  cheer  when  we 
hear  it,  perchance  because  we  that  hear  are  not  one  with 
that  which  is  heard. 

Therefore  a  torrent  of  sadness  deep, 

Through  the  strains  of  thy  triumph  is  heard  to  sweep. 

The  sadness  is  ours.     The  Indian  poet  Calidas  says  14 
the  Sacontala :    "  Perhaps  the  sadness  of  men  on  seeing 


MONDAY.  185 

beautiful  forms  and*  hearing  sweet  music  arises  from 
some  faint  remembrance  of  past  joys,  and  the  traces  of 
connections  in  a  former  state  of  existence."  As  polish 
ing  expresses  the  vein  in  marble,  and  grain  in  wood,  so 
music  brings  out  what  of  heroic  lurks  anywhere.  The 
hero  is  the  sole  patron  of  music.  That  harmony  which 
exists  naturally  between  the  hero's  moods  and  the  uni 
verse  the  soldier  would  fain  imitate  with  drum  and 
trumpet.  When  we  are  in  health  all  sounds  fife  and 
drum  for  us  ;  we  hear  the  notes  of  music  in  the  air,  or 
catch  its  echoes  dying  away  when  we  awake  in  the 
dawn.  Marching  is  when  the  pulse  of  the  hero  beats  in 
unison  with  the  pulse  of  Nature,  and  he  steps  to  the 
measure  of  the  universe  ;  then  there  is  true  courage  and 
invincible  strength. 

Plutarch  says  that  "  Plato  thinks  the  gods  never  gave 
men  music,  the  science  of  melody  and  harmony,  for 
mere  delectation  or  to  tickle  the  ear ;  but  that  the  dis 
cordant  parts  of  the  circulations  and  beauteous  fabric  of 
the  soul,  and  that  of  it  that  roves  about  the  body,  and 
many  times,  for  want  of  tune  and  air,  breaks  forth  into 
many  extravagances  and  excesses,  might  be  sweetly  re 
called  and  artfully  wound  up  to  their  former  consent  and 
agreement." 

Music  is  the  sound  of  the  universal  laws  promulgated. 
It  is  the  only  assured  tone.  -There  are  in  it  such  strains 
as  far  surpass  any  man's  faith  in  the  loftiness  of  his  des 
tiny.  Things  are  to  be  learned  which  it  will  be  worth 
the  while  to  learn.  Formerly  I  heard  these 

RUMORS  FROM  AN  ^EOLIAN  HARP. 

There  is  a  vale  whv^h  none  hath  seen, 
Where  foot  of  man  has  never  been, 
Such  as  here  lives  with  toil  acd  strife, 
An  anxious  and  a  sinful  life. 


186  A    WEEK. 

There  every  virtue  has  its  birth,* 
Ere  it  descends  upon  the  earth, 
And  thither  every  deed  returns, 
Which  in  the  generous  bosom  burns. 

There  love  is  warm,  and  youth  is  young, 
And  poetry  is  yet  unsung, 
For  Virtue  still  adventures  there, 
And  freely  breathes  her  native  air. 

And  ever,  if  you  hearken  well, 
You  still  may  hear  its  vesper  bell, 
And  tread  of  high-souled  men  go  by, 
Their  thoughts  conversing  with  the  sky. 

According  to  Jarablichus,  "  Pythagoras  did  not  pro 
cure  for  himself  a  thing  of  this  kind  through  instruments 
or  the  voice,  but  employing  a  certain  ineffable  divinity, 
and  which  it  is  difficult  to  apprehend,  he  extended  hia 
ears  and  fixed  his  intellect  in  the  sublime  symphonies 
of  the  world,  he  alone  hearing  and  understanding,  as  it 
appears,  the  universal  harmony  and  consonance  of  the 
spheres,  and  the  stars  that  are  moved  through  them, 
and  which  produce  a  fuller  and  more  intense  melody 
than  anything  effected  by  mortal  sounds." 

Travelling  on  foot  very  early  one  morning  due  east 
from  here  about  twenty  miles,  from  Caleb  Harriman's 
tavern  in  Hampstead  toward  Ilaverhill,  when  I  reached 
the  railroad  in  Plaistow,  I  heard  at  some  distance  a 
faint  music  in  the  air  like  an  jEolian  harp,  which  I 
immediately  suspected  to  proceed  from  the  cord  of  the 
telegraph  vibrating  in  the  just  awakening  morning  wind, 
and  applying  my  ear  to  one  of  the  posts  I  was  convinced 
that  it  was  so.  It  was  the  telegraph  harp  singing  its 
message  through  the  country,  its  message  sent  not  by 
men,  but  by  gods.  Perchance,  like  the  statue  of  Mem- 
non,  it  resounds  only  in  the  morning,  when  the  first  rayi 


MONDAY.  18? 

of  the  sun  fall  on  it.  It  was  like  the  first  lyre  or  shell 
heard  on  the  sea-shore,  —  that  vibrating  cord  high  in  the 
air  over  the  shores  of  earth.  So  have  all  things  their 
higher  and  their  lower  uses.  I  heard  a  fairer  news 
than  the  journals  ever  print.  It  told  of  things  worthy 
to  hear,  and  worthy  of  the  electric  fluid  to  carry  the  news 
of,  not  of  the  price  of  cotton  and  flour,  but  it  hinted  at 
the  price  of  the  world  itself  and  of  things  which  are 
priceless,  of  absolute  truth  and  beauty. 

Still  the  drum  rolled  on,  and  stirred  our  blood  to  fresh 
extravagance  that  night.  The  clarion  sound  and  clang 
of  corselet  and  buckler  were  heard  from  many  a  hamlet 
of  the  soul,  and  many  a  knight  was  arming  for  the  fight 
behind  the  encamped  stars. 

"  Before  each  van 

Prick  forth  the  aery  knights,  and  couch  their  ry**ra 
Till  thickest  legions  close ;  with  feats  of  arms 
From  either  end  of  Heaven  the  welkin  burns.'" 


Away!  away!  away!  away 
Ye  have  not  kept  your  secret  well, 

I  will  abide  that  other  day, 
Those  other  lands  ye  tell. 

Has  time  no  leisure  left  for  these, 

The  acts  that  ye  rehearse  ? 
Is  not  eternity  a  lease 

For  better  deeds  than  verse  / 

'T  is  sweet  to  hear  of  heroes  dead, 

To  know  them  still  alive, 
But  sweeter  if  we  earn  their  bread, 

And  in  us  they  survive. 

Our  life  should  feed  the  springs  of  fam« 

With  a  perennial  wave, 
As  ocean  feeds  the  babbling  fount* 

WUWi.  UUu   ./L>  ..   .4*0^   6u  Vb 


188  A    WEEK. 

Ye  skies  drop  gently  round  my  breast. 

And  be  my  corselet  blue, 
Ye  earth  receive  my  lance  in  rest, 

My  faithful  charger  you; 

Ye  stars  my  spear-heads  in  the  sky, 

My  arrow-tips  ye  are; 
I  see  the  routed  foemen  fly, 

My  bright  spears  fixed  are. 

Give  me  an  angel  for  a  foe, 

Fix  now  the  place  and  time, 
And  straight  to  meet  him  I  will  go 

Above  the  starry  chime. 

And  with  our  clashing  bucklers'  clang 

The  heavenly  spheres  shall  ring, 
While  bright  the  northern  lights  shall  hang 

Beside  our  tourneying. 

And  if  she  lose  her  champion  true, 

Tell  Heaven  not  despair, 
For  I  will  be  her  champion  new, 

Her  fame  I  will  repair. 

There  was  a  high  wind  this  night,  which  we  after 
wards  learned  had  been  still  more  violent  elsewhere,  and 
had  done  much  injury  to  the  cornfields  far  and  near; 
but  we  only  heard  it  sigh  from  time  to  time,  as  if  it  had 
no  license  to  shake  the  foundations  of  our  tent;  the 
pines  murmured,  the  water  rippled,  and  the  tent  rocked 
a  little,  but  we  only  laid  our  ears  closer  to  the  ground, 
while  the  blast  swept  on  to  alarm  other  men,  and  long 
before  sunrise  we  were  ready  to  pursue  our  voyage  aa 
usual. 


TUESDAY. 


«On  either  side  the  river  lie 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 
That  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky ; 
And  through  the  fields  the  road  runs  by 
To  many-towered  Camelot" 

Taamom 


TUESDAY. 


LONG  before  daylight  we  ranged  abroad,  hatchet  in 
hand,  in  search  of  fuel,  and  made  the  yet  slumbering  and 
dreaming  wood  resound  with  our  blows.  Then  with  our 
fire  we  burned  up  a  portion  of  the  loitering  night,  while 
the  kettle  sang  its  homely  strain  to  the  morning  star. 
We  tramped  about  the  shore,  waked  all  the  muskrats, 
and  scared  up  the  bittern  and  birds  that  were  asleep 
upon  their  roosts  ;  we  hauled  up  and  upset  our  boat  and 
washed  it  and  rinsed  out  the  clay,  talking  aloud  as  if  it 
were  broad  day,  until  at  length,  by  three  o'clock,  we  had 
completed  our  preparations  and  were  ready  to  pursue 
our  voyage  as  usual ;  so,  shaking  the  clay  from  our  feet, 
we  pushed  into  the  fog. 

Though  we  were  enveloped  in  mist  as  usual,  we 
trusted  that  there  was  a  bright  day  behind  it. 

Ply  the  oars !  away !  away ! 
In  each  dew-drop  of  the  morning 
Lies  the  promise  of  a  day. 

Rivers  from  the  sunrise  flow, 

Springing  with  the  dewy  morn; 

Voyageurs  'gainst  time  do  row, 

Idle  noon  nor  sunset  know, 
Ever  even  with  the  dawn. 

Belknap,  the  historian  of  this  State,  says  that,  "  In  the 
neighborhood  of  fresh  rivers  and  ponds,  a  whitish  fog  in 


192  A    WEEK. 

the  morning  lying  over  the  water  is  a  sure  indication  of 
fair  weather  for  that  day ;  aud  when  no  fog  is  seen,  rain 
is  expected  before  night."  That  which  seemed  to  us  to 
invest  the  world  was  only  a  narrow  and  shallow  wreath 
of  vapor  stretched  over  the  channel  of  the  Merrimack 
from  the  seaboard  to  the  mountains.  More  extensive 
fogs,  however,  have  their  own  limits.  I  once  saw  the 
day  break  from  the  top  of  Saddle-back  Mountain  in 
Massachusetts,  above  the  clouds.  As  we  cannot  distin 
guish  objects  through  this  dense  fog,  let  me  tell  this  story 
more  at  length. 

I  had  come  over  the  hills  on  foot  and  alone  in  serene 
summer  days,  plucking  the  raspberries  by  the  wayside, 
and  occasionally  buying  a  loaf  of  bread  at  a  farmer's 
house,  with  a  knapsack  on  my  back  which  held  a  few 
traveller's  books  and  a  change  of  clothing,  and  a  staff  in 
my  hand.  I  had  that  morning  looked  down  from  the 
Hoosack  Mountain,  where  the  road  crosses  it,  on  the  vil 
lage  of  North  Adams  in  the  valley  three  miles  away 
under  my  feet,  showing  how  uneven  the  earth  may 
sometimes  be,  and  making  it  seem  an  accident  that  it 
should  ever  be  level  and  convenient  for  the  feet  of  man. 
Putting  a  little  rice  and  sugar  and  a  tin  cup  into  my 
knapsack  at  this  village,  I  began  in  the  afternoon  to  as 
cend  the  mountain,  whose  summit  is  three  thousand  six 
hundred  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea,  and  was  seven 
or  eight  miles  distant  by  the  path.  My  route  lay  up  a 
long  and  spacious  valley  called  the  Bellows,  because  the 
winds  rush  up  or  down  it  with  violence  in  storms,  slop 
ing  up  to  the  very  clouds  between  the  principal  range 
and  a  lower  mountain.  There  were  a  few  farms  scat 
tered  along  at  different  elevations,  each  commanding  a 


TUESDAY.  193 

fine  prospect  of  the  mountains  to  the  north,  and  a  stream 
ran  down  the  middle  of  the  valley  on  which  near  the 
head  there  was  a  mill.  It  seemed  a  road  for  the  pil 
grim  to  enter  upon  who  would  climb  to  the  gates  of 
heaven.  Now  I  crossed  a  hay-field,  and  now  over  the 
brook  on  a  slight  bridge,  still  gradually  ascending  all  the 
while  with  a  sort  of  awe,  and  filled  with  indefinite  ex 
pectations  ns  to  what  kind  of  inhabitants  and  what  kind 
of  nature  I  should  come  to  at  last.  It  now  seemed 
some  advantage  that  the  earth  was  uneven,  for  one 
could  not  imagine  a  more  noble  position  for  a  farm 
house  than  this  vale  afforded,  farther  from  or  nearer 
to  its  head,  from  a  glen-like  seclusion  overlooking  the 
country  at  a  great  elevation  between  these  two  mountain 
walls. 

It  reminded  me  of  the  homesteads  of  the  Huguenots, 
en  Staten  Island,  off  the  coast  of  New  Jersey.  The 
hills  in  the  interior  of  this  island,  though  comparatively 
low,  are  penetrated  in  various  directions  by  similar  slop 
ing  valleys  on  a  humble  scale,  gradually  narrowing  and 
rising  to  the  centre,  and  at  the  head  of  these  the  Hu 
guenots,  who  were  the  first  settlers,  placed  their  houses 
quite  within  the  land,  in  rural  and  sheltered  places,  in 
leafy  recesses  where  the  breeze  played  with  the  poplar 
and  the  gurn-tree,  from  which,  with  equal  security  in 
calm  and  storm,  they  looked  out  through  a  widening 
vista,  over  miles  of  forest  and  stretching  salt  marsh,  to 
the  Huguenot's  Tree,  an  old  elm  on  the  shore  at  whose 
root  they  had  landed,  and  across  the  spacious  outer  bay 
of  New  York  to  Sandy  Hook  and  the  Highlands  of 
Neversink,  and  thence  over  leagues  of  the  Atlantic,  per- 
thance  to  some  faint  vessel  in  the  horizon,  almost  a  day's 
Bail  on  her  voyage  to  thai  Europe  whence  they  had 
d  M 


1(J4  A    WEEK. 

come.  When  walking  in  the  interior  there,  in  the  midst 
of  rural  scenery,  where  there  was  as  little  to  remind  me 
of  the  ocean  as  amid  the  New  Hampshire  hills,  I  have 
suddenly,  through  a  gap,  a  cleft  or  "  clove  road,"  as  the 
Dutch  settlers  called  it,  caught  sight  of  a  ship  under  full 
sail,  over  a  field  of  corn,  twenty  or  thirty  miles  at  sea. 
The  effect  was  similar,  since  I  had  no  means  of  meas 
uring  distances,  to  seeing  a  painted  ship  passed  back 
wards  and  forwards  through  a  magic-lantern. 

But  to  return  to  the  mountain.  It  seemed  as  if  he 
must  be  the  most  singular  and  heavenly  minded  man 
whose  dwelling  stood  highest  up  the  valley.  The  thun 
der  had  rumbled  at  my  heels  all  the  way,  but  the  shower 
passed  off  in  another  direction,  though  if  it  had  not,  I 
half  believed  that  I  should  get  above  it.  I  at  length 
reached  the  last  house  but  one,  where  the  path  to  the 
summit  diverged  to  the  right,  while  the  summit  itself  rose 
directly  in  front.  But  I  determined  to  follow  up  the  val 
ley  to  its  head,  and  then  find  my  own  route  up  the  steep 
as  the  shorter  and  more  adventurous  way.  I  had 
thoughts  of  returning  to  this  house,  which  was  well  kept 
and  so  nobly  placed,  the  next  day,  and  perhaps  remain 
ing  a  week  there,  if  I  could  have  entertainment.  Its 
mistress  was  a  frank  and  hospitable  young  woman,  who 
stood  before  me  in  a  dishabille,  busily  and  unconcern 
edly  combing  her  long  black  hair  while  she  talked,  giv 
ing  her  head  the  necessary  toss  with  each  sweep  of  the 
comb,  with  lively,  sparkling  eyes,  and  full  of  interest  in 
that  lower  world  from  which  I  had  come,  talking  all  the 
while  as  familiarly  as  if  she  had  known  me  for  years, 
and  reminding  me  of  a  cousin  of  mine.  She  at  first  had 
taken  me  for  a  student  from  Williamstown,  for  they 
went  by  in  parties,  she  said,  either  riding  or  walking 


TUESDAY.  19,3 

almost  every  pleasant  day,  and  were  a  pretty  wild  set 
of  fellows ;  but  they  never  went  by  the  way  I  was  go 
ing.  As  I  passed  the  last  house,  a  man  culled  out  to 
know  what  I  had  to  sell,  for  seeing  my  knapsack,  he 
thought  that  I  might  be  a  pedler  who  was  taking  this  un 
usual  route  over  the  ridge  of  the  valley  into  South  Adams. 
He  told  me  that  it  was  still  four  or  five  miles  to  the  summit 
by  the  path  which  I  had  left,  though  not  more  than  two 
in  a  straight  line  from  where  I  was,  but  that  nobody  ever 
went  this  way ;  there  was  no  path,  and  I  should  find  it 
as  steep  as  the  roof  of  a  house.  But  I  knew  that  I  was 
more  used  to  woods  and  mountains  than  he,  and  went 
along  through  his  cow-yard,  while  he,  looking  at  the  sun, 
shouted  after  me  that  I  should  not  get  to  the  top  that 
night.  I  soon  reached  the  head  of  the  valley,  but  as  I 
could  not  see  the  summit  from  this  point,  I  ascended  a 
low  mountain  on  the  opposite  side,  and  took  its  bearing 
with  my  compass.  I  at  once  entered  the  woods,  and  be 
gan  to  climb  the  steep  side  of  the  mountain  in  a  diagonal 
direction,  taking  the  bearing  of  a  tree  every  dozen  rods. 
The  ascent  was  by  no  means  difficult  or  unpleasant,  and 
occupied  much  less  time  than  it  would  have  taken  to  fol 
low  the  path.  Even  country  people,  I  have  observed, 
magnify  the  difficulty  of  travelling  in  the  forest,  and 
-especially  among  mountains.  They  seem  to  lack  their 
usual  common  sense  in  this.  I  have  climbed  several 
higher  mountains  without  guide  or  path,  and  have  found, 
as  might  be  expected,  that  it  takes  only  more  time  and 
patience  commonly  than  to  travel  the  smoothest  high 
way.  It  is  very  rare  that  you  meet  with  obstacles  in 
this  world  which  the  humblest  man  has  not  faculties  to 
(surmount.  It  is  true  we  may  come  to  a  perpendicular 
precipice,  but  we  need  not  jump  off  nor  run  our  headi 


196  A    WEEK. 

Rgainst  it.  A  man  may  jump  down  his  own  cellar  stairs 
or  dash  his  brains  out  against  his  chimney,  if  he  is  mad. 
So  far  as  my  experience  goes,  travellers  generally  ex 
aggerate  the  difficulties  of  the  way.  Like  most  evil,  the 
difficulty  is  imaginary  ;  for  what's  the  hurry?  Ifaper- 
Bon  lost  would  conclude  that  after  all  he  is  not  lost,  he  is 
not  beside  himself,  but  standing  in  his  own  old  shoes  on 
the  very  spot  where  he  is,  and  that  for  the  time  being 
he  will  live  there ;  but  the  places  that  have  known  him, 
they  are  lost,  —  how  much  anxiety  and  danger  would 
vanish.  I  am  not  alone  if  I  stand  by  myself.  Who 
knows  where  in  space  this  globe  is  rolling?  Yet  we 
will  not  give  ourselves  up  for  lost,  let  it  go  where  it 
will. 

I  made  my  way  steadily  upward  in  a  .straight  line 
through  a  dense  undergrowth  of  mountain  laurel,  until 
the  trees  began  to  have  a  scraggy  and  infernal  look,  as 
if  contending  with  frost  goblins,  and  at  length  I  reached 
:he  summit,  just  as  the  sun  was  setting.  Several  acres 
here  had  been  cleared,  and  were  covered  with  rocks  and 
stumps,  and  there  was  a  rude  observatory  in  the  middle 
which  overlooked  the  woods.  I  had  one  fair  view  of  the 
country  before  the  sun  went  down,  but  I  was  too  thirsty 
to  waste  any  light  in  viewing  the  prospect,  and  set  out 
directly  to  find  water.  First,  going  down  a  well-beaten 
path  for  half  a  mile  through  the  low  scrubby  wood,  till  I 
came  to  where  the  water  stood  in  the  tracks  of  the  horses 
which  had  carried  travellers  up,  I  lay  down  flat,  and 
drank  these  dry,  one  after  another,  a  pure,  cold,  spring 
like  water,  but  yet  I  could  not  fill  my  dipper,  though  I 
contrived  little  siphons  of  grass-stems,  and  ingenious 
aqueducts  on  a  small  scale ;  it  was  too  slow  a  process, 
Then  remembering  that  T  had  passed  a  moist  place  neal 


TUESDAY.  1U7 

the  top.  on  my  way  up,  I  returned  to  find  it  again,  and 
here,  with  sharp  stones  and  my  hands,  in  the  twilight,  I 
made  a  well  about  two  feet  deep,  which  was  soon  filled 
with  pure  cold  water,  and  the  birds  too  came  and  drank 
at  it.  So  I  filled  my  dipper,  and,  making  my  way  back 
to  the  observatory,  collected  some  dry  sticks,  and  made 
a  fire  on  some  flat  stones  which  had  been  placed  on  the 
floor  for  that  purpose,  and  so  I  soon  cooked  my  supper 
of  rice,  having  already  whittled  a  wooden  spoon  to  eat 
it  with. 

I  sat  up  during  the  evening,  reading  by  the  light  of 
the  fire  the  scraps  of  newspapers  in  which  some  party 
had  wrapped  their  luncheon ;  the  prices  current  in  New 
York  and  Boston,  the  advertisements,  and  the  singular 
editorials  which  some  had  seen  fit  to  publish,  not  fore 
seeing  under  what  critical  circumstances  they  would  be 
read.  I  read  these  things  at  a  vast  advantage  there, 
and  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  advertisements,  or  what  is 
called  the  business  part  of  a  paper,  were  greatly  the 
best,  the  most  useful,  natural,  and  respectable.  Almost 
all  the  opinions  and  sentiments  expressed  were  so  little 
considered,  so  shallow  and  flimsy,  that  I  thought  the 
very  texture  of  the  paper  must  be  weaker  in  that  part 
and  tear  the  more  easily.  The  advertisements  and  the 
prices  current  were  more  closely  allied  to  nature,  and 
were  respectable  in  some  measure  as  tide  and  meteoro 
logical  tables  are ;  but  the  reading-matter,  which  I 
remembered  was  most  prized  down  below,  unless  it  was 
Borne  humble  record  of  science,  or  an  extract  from  some 
old  classic,  struck' me  as  strangely  whimsical,  and  crude, 
and  one-idea'd,  like  a  school-boy's  theme,  such  as  youths 
write  and  after  burn  The  opinions  were  of  that  kind 
that  are  dcomed  to  wear  a  different  aspect  to-morrow 


198 


A     WKKK. 


like  last  year's  fashions ;  as  if  mankind  were  very  green 
indeed,  and  would  be  ashamed  of  themselves  in  a  few 
years,  when  they  had  outgrown  this  verdant  period. 
There  was,  moreover,  a  singular  disposition  to  wit  and 
humor,  but  rarely  the  slightest  real  success ;  and  the 
apparent  success  was  a  terrible  satire  on  the  attempt; 
the  Evil  Genius  of  man  laughed  the  loudest  at  his  best 
jokes.  The  advertisements,  as  I  have  said,  such  as  were 
serious,  and  not  of  the  modern  quack  kind,  suggested 
pleasing  and  poetic  thoughts ;  for  commerce  is  really  as 
interesting  as  nature.  The  very  names  of  the  commodi 
ties  were  poetic,  and  as  suggestive  as  if  they  had  been 
inserted  in  a  pleasing  poem,  —  Lumber,  Cotton,  Sugar, 
Hides,  Guano,  Logwood.  Some  sober,  private,  and 
original  thought  would  have  been  grateful  to  read  there, 
and  as  much  in  harmony  with  the  circumstances  as  if  it 
hud  been  written  on  a  mountain-top ;  for  it  is  of  a  fashion 
which  never  changes,  and  as  respectable  as  hides  and 
logwood,  or  any  natural  product.  What  an  inestimable 
companion  such  a  scrap  of  paper  would  have  been,  con 
taining  some  fruit  of  a  mature  life.  What  a  relic! 
What  a  recipe!  It  seemed  a  divine  invention,  by  which 
not  mere  shining  coin,  but  shining  and  current  thoughts, 
could  be  brought  up  and  left  there. 

As  it  was  cold,  I  collected  quite  a  pile  of  wood  and 
lay  down  on  a  board  against  the  side  of  the  building,  not 
having  any  blanket  to  cover  me,  with  my  head  to  the 
fire,  that  I  might  look  after  it,  which  is  not  the  Indian 
rule.  But  as  it  grew  colder  towards  midnight,  I  at 
length  encased  myself  completely  in  boards,  managing 
even  to  put  a  board  on  top  of  me,  with  a  large  stone  on 
it,  to  keop  it  down,  and  so  slept  comfortably.  I  was 
reminded,  it  is  true,  of  the  Irish  children,  who  inquires 


TUESDAY  199 

•vhat  their  neighbors  did  who  had  no  door  to  put  over 
them  in  winter  nights  as  they  had  ;  but  I  am  convinced 
that  there  was  nothing  very  strange  in  the  inquiry. 
Those  who  have  never  tried  it  can  have  no  idea  how  far 
a  door,  which  keeps  the  single  blanket  down,  may  go 
toward  making  one  comfortable.  We  are  constituted  a 
good  deal  like  chickens,  which  taken  from  the  hen,  and 
put  in  a  basket  of  cotton  in  the  chimney-corner,  will 
often  peep  till  they  die,  nevertheless,  but  if  you  put  in 
a  book,  or  anything  heavy,  which  will  press  down  the 
cotton,  and  feel  like  the  hen,  they  go  to  sleep  directly. 
My  only  companions  were  the  mice,  which  came  to  pick 
up  the  crumbs  that  had  been  left  in  those  scraps  of 
paper ;  still,  as  everywhere,  pensioners  on  man,  and  not 
unwisely  improving  this  elevated  tract  for  their  habita 
tion.  They  nibbled  what  was  for  them ;  I  nibbled  what 
was  for  me.  Once  or  twice  in  the  night,  when  I  looked 
up,  I  saw  a  white  cloud  drifting  through  the  windows, 
and  filling  the  whole  upper  story. 

This  observatory  was  a  building  of  considerable  size, 
erected  by  the  students  of  William&town  College,  whose 
buildings  might  be  seen  by  da}1  light  gleaming  far  down 
in  the  valley.  It  would  be  no  small  advantage  if  every 
college  were  thus  located  at  the  base  of  a  mountain,  as 
good  at  least  as  one  well-endowed  professorship.  It 
were  as  well  to  be  educated  in  the  shadow  of  a  mountain 
as  in  more  classical  shades.  Some  will  remember,  no 
doubt,  not  only  that  they  went  to  the  college,  but  that 
ihey  went  to  the  mountain.  Every  visit  to  its  summit 
would,  as  it  were,  generalize  the  particular  information 
gained  below,  and  subject  it  TO  more  catholic  tests. 

1  was  up  early  and  perched  upon  the  top  of  this  tower 
to  see  th  J  daybreak,  for  some  time  reading  the  name* 


200  A    WEEK. 

that  had  been  engraved  there,  before  I  could  distinguish 
more  distant  objects.  An  "untamable  fly"  buzzed  at 
my  elbow  with  the  same  nonchalance  as  on  a  molasses 
hogshead  at  the  end  of  Long  Wharf.  Even  there  I 
must  attend  to  his  stale  humdrum.  But  now  I  come  to 
the  pith  of  this  long  digression.  —  As  the  light  increased 
I  discovered  around  me  an  ocean  of  mist,  which  by 
chance  reached  up  exactly  to  the  base  of  the  tower,  and 
shut  out  every  vestige  of  the  earth,  while  I  was  left 
floating  on  this  fragment  of  the  wreck  of  a  world,  on  my 
carved  plank,  in  cloudland ;  a  situation  which  required 
no  aid  from  the  imagination  to  render  it  impressive.  As 
the  light  in  the  east  steadily  increased,  it  revealed  to  me 
more  clearly  the  new  world  into  which  I  had  risen  in 
the  night,  the  new  terra  Jirma  perchance  of  my  future 
life.  There  was  not  a  crevice  left  through  which  the 
trivial  places  we  name  Massachusetts  or  Vermont  or 
New  York  could  be  seen,  while  I  still  inhaled  the  clear 
atmosphere  of  a  July  morning,  —  if  it  were  July  there. 
All  around  beneath  me  was  spread  for  a  hundred  miles 
on  every  side,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  an  undulat 
ing  country  of  clouds,  answering  in  the  varied  swell  of 
its  surface  to  the  terrestrial  world  it  veiled.  It  was 
such  a  country  as  we  might  see  in  dreams,  with  all  the 
delights  of  paradise.  There  were  immense  snowy  pas 
tures,  apparently  smooth-shaven  and  firm,  and  shady 
vales  between  the  vaporous  mountains ;  and  far  in  the 
horizon  I  could  see  where  some  luxurious  misty  timber 
tutted  into  the  prairie,  and  trace  the  windings  of  a  water 
course,  some  unimagined  Amazon  or  Orinoko,  by  the 
misty  trees  on  its  brink.  As  there  was  wanting  thf 
symbol,  so  there  was  not  the  substance  of  impurity,  no 
spot  nor  stain.  It  was  a  favor  for  which  to  be  forevet 


TUESDAY.  201 

silent  to  be  shown  this  vision.  The  earth  beneath  had 
become  such  a  flitting  thing  of  lights  and  shadows  as  the 
clouds  had  been  before.  It  was  not  merely  veiled  to 
me,  but  it  had  passed  away  like  the  phantom  of  a  shadow, 
arKias  ovap,  and  this  new  platform  was  gained.  As  I  had 
climbed  above  storm  and  cloud,  so  by  successive  days' 
journeys  I  might  reach  the  region  of  eternal  day,  beyond 
the  tapering  shadow  of  the  earth  ;  ay, 

"  Heaven  itself  shall  slide, 
And  roll  away,  like  melting  stars  that  glide 
Along  their  oily  threads." 

But  when  its  own  sun  began  to  rise  on  this  pure  world, 
I  found  myself  a  dweller  in  the  dazzling  halls  of  Aurcra, 
into  which  poets  have  had  but  a  partial  glance  over  the 
eastern  hills,  drifting  amid  the  saffron -colored  cloud*, 
and  playing  with  the  rosy  fingers  of  the  Dawn,  in  the 
very  path  of  the  Sun's  chariot,  and  sprinkled  with  its 
dewy  dust,  enjoying  the  benignant  smile,  and  near  at 
hand  the  far-darting  glances  of  the  god.  The  inhabi 
tant  of  earth  behold  commonly  but  the  dark  and  shadowy 
under-side  of  heaven's  pavement ;  it  is  only  when  seen 
at  a  favorable  angle  in  the  horizon,  morning  or  evening, 
that  some  faint  streaks  of  the  rich  lining  of  the  clouds 
are  revealed.  But  my  muse  would  fail  to  convey  an 
impression  of  the  gorgeous  tapestry  by  which  I  was  sur 
rounded,  such  as  men  see  faintly  reflected  afar  off  in  the 
chambers  of  the  east.  Here,  as  on  earth,  I  saw  the 
gracious  god 

"  Flatter  the  mountain-tons  with  sovereign  eye, 

Gilding  pale  streams  with  heavenly  alchemy." 

$ut  never  here  did  "  Heaven's  sun  "  stain  himself. 
But,  alas,  owing,  as  I  tlrnk,  to  some  unworthiness  in 
9* 


202  A     \VKKK. 

myself,  my  private  sun  did  stain  himself,  and 

"  Anon  permit  the  basest  clouds  to  ride 
With  ugly  wrack  on  his  celestial  face,"  — 

for  before  the  god  had  reached  the  zenith  the  heavenly 
pavement  rose  and  embraced  my  wavering  virtue,  01 
rather  I  sank  down  again  into  that  "  forlorn  world,"  from 
which  the  celestial  sun  had  hid  his  visage,  — 

"  How  may  a  worm  that  crawls  along  the  dust, 
Clamber  the  azure  mountains,  thrown  so  high, 
And  fetch  from  thence  thy  fair  idea  just, 
That  in  those  sunny  courts  doth  hidden  lie, 
Clothed  with  such  light  as  blinds  the  angel's  eye  V 
How  may  weak  mortal  ever  hope  to  file 
His  unsmooth  tongue,  and  his  deprostrate  style? 
0,  raise  thou  from  his  corse  thy  now  entombed  exile  !  " 

In  the  preceding  evening  I  had  seen  the  summits  of 
new  and  yet  higher  mountains,  the  Catskills,  by  which 
I  might  hope  to  climb  to  heaven  again,  and  had  set  my 
compass  for  a  fair  lake  in  the  southwest,  which  lay  in  my 
way,  for  which  I  now  steered,  descending  the  mountain 
by  my  own  route,  on  the  side  opposite  to  that  by  wUieh 
I  had  ascended,  and  soon  found  myself  in  the  region  of 
cloud  and  drizzling  rain,  and  the  inhabitants  affirmed 
that  it  had  been  a  cloudy  and  drizzling  day  wholly. 

But  now  we  must  make  haste  back  before  the  fog  dis 
perses  to  the  blithe  Merrimack  water. 

Since  that  first  "  Away !  away !  " 

Many  a  lengthy  reach  we  've  rowed, 

Still  the  sparrow  on  the  spray 

Hastes  to  usher  in  the  day 

With  her  simple  stanza'd  ode. 

We  passed  a  canal-boat  before  sunrise,  groping  its 
way  to  the  seaboard,  and,  though  we  could  not  see  it  01 


TUESDAY.  203 

account  of  the  fog,  the  few  dull,  thumping,  stertorous 
sounds  which  we  heard,  impressed  us  with  a  sense  of 
weight  and  irresistible  motion.  One  little  rill*of  com- 

O 

inerce  already  awake  on  this  distant  New  Hampshire 
river.  The  fog,  as  it  required  more  skill  in  the  steer 
ing,  enhanced  the  interest  of  our  early  voyage,  and  made 
the  river  seern  indefinitely  broad.  A  slight  mist, 
through  which  objects  are  faintly  visible,  has  the  effect 
of  expanding  even  ordinary  streams,  by  a  singular  mirage, 
into  arms  of  the  sea  or  inland  lakes.  In  the  present  in 
stance  it  was  even  fragrant  and  invigorating,  and  we 
enjoyed  it  as  a  sort  of  earlier  sunshine,  or  dewy  and 
pmbryo  light. 

Low-anchored  cloud, 

Newfoundland  air, 

Fountain-head  and  source  of  rivers, 

Dew-cloth,  dream  drapery, 

And  napkin  spread  by  fays; 

Drifting  meadow  of  the  air, 

Where  bloom  the  daisied  banks  and  violets, 

And  in  whose  fenny  labyrinth 

The  bittern  booms  and  heron  wades; 

Spirit  of  lakes  and  seas  and  rivers, 

Bear  only  perfumes  and  the  scent 

Of  healing  herbs  to  just  men's  fields! 

The  same  pleasant  and  observant  historian  whom  we 
quoted  above  says,  that,  "  In  the  mountainous  parts  of 
the  country,  the  ascent  of  vapors,  and  their  formation 
into  clouds,  is  a  curious  and  entertaining  object.  The 
vapors  are  seen  ~isrng  in  small  columns  like  smoke  from 
many  chimneys.  When  riset:  to  a  certain  height,  they 
-pread,  meet,  condense,  and  are  attracted  to  the  moun- 
ains.  where  they  either  distil  in  gentle  dews,  and  re 
plenish  the  springs,  or  descend  in  showers,  accompanied 


A   WEEK. 

with  thunder.  After  short  intermissions,  the  process  is 
repeated  many  times  in  the  course  of  a  summer  day 
affording  to  travellers  a  lively  illustration  of  what  is  ob 
served  in  the  Book  of  Job,  '  They  are  wet  with  the 
showers  of  the  mountains.' " 

Fogs  and  clouds  which  conceal  the  overshadowing 
mountains  lend  the  breadth  of  the  plains  to  mountain 
vales.  Even  a  small-featured  country  acquires  some 
grandeur  in  stormy  weather  when  clouds  are  seen  drift 
ing  between  the  beholder  and  the  neighboring  hills. 
When,  in  travelling  toward  Haverhill  through  ITamp- 
Btead  in  this  State,  on  the  height  of  land  between  the 
Merrimack  and  the  Piscataqua  or  the  sea,  you  commence 
the  descent  eastward,  the  view  toward  the  coast  is  so 
distant  and  unexpected,  though  the  sea  is  invisible,  that 
you  at  first  suppose  the  unobstructed  atmosphere  to  be  a 
fog  in  the  lowlands  concealing  hills  of  corresponding  ele 
vation  to  that  you  are  upon  ;  but  it  is  the  mist  of  preju 
dice  alone,  which  the  winds  will  not  disperse.  The  most 
stupendous  scenery  ceases  to  be  sublime  when  it  becomes 
distinct,  or  in  other  words  limited,  and  the  imagination 
is  no  longer  encouraged  to  exaggerate  it.  The  actual 
height  and  breadth  of  a  mountain  or  a  waterfall  are  al* 
ways  ridiculously  small ;  they  are  the  imagined  only 
that  content  us  Nature  is  not  made  after  such  a  fashion 
RS  we  would  have  her.  We  piously  exaggerate  her 
wonders,  as  the  scenery  around  our  home. 

Such  was  the  heaviness  of  the  dews  along  this  rivei 
that  we  were  generally  obliged  to  leave  our  tent  spread 
over  the  bows  of  the  boat  till  the  sun  had  dried  it,  to 
nvoid  mildew.  We  passed  the  mouth  of  Penichook 
Brook,  a  wild  salmon-stream,  in  the  fog,  without  seeing 
it.  At  length  the  sun's  rays  struggled  through  the  mis) 


TUESDAY.  205 

and  showed  us  the  pmes  on  shore  dripping  with  dew, 
and  springs  trickling  from  the  moist  banks, — 

"  And  now  the  taller  sons,  whom  Titan  warms, 
Of  unshorn  mountains  blown  with  easy  winds, 
Dandle  the  morning's  childhood  in  their  arms, 
And,  if  they  chanced  to  slip  the  prouder  pines, 
The  under  corylets  did  catch  their  shines, 
To  gild  their  leaves." 

We  rowed  for  some  hours  between  glistening  banks 
before  the  sun  had  dried  the  grass  and  leaves,  or  the  day 
had  established  its  character.  Its  serenity  at  last  seemed 
the  more  profound  and  secure  for  the  denseness  of  the 
morning's  fog.  The  river  became  swifter,  and  the  scen 
ery  more  pleasing  than  before.  The  banks  were  steep 
and  clayey  for  the  most  part,  and  trickling  with  water, 
and  where  a  spring  oozed  out  a  few  feet  above  the  river 
the  boatmen  had  cut  a  trough  out  of  a  slab  with  their 
axes,  and  placed  it  so  as  to  receive  the  water  and  fill 
their  jugs  conveniently.  Sometimes  this  purer  and 
cooler  water,  bursting  out  from  under  a  pine  or  a  rock, 
was  collected  into  a  basin  close  to  the  edge  of  and  level 
with  the  river,  a  fountain-head  of  the  Merrimack.  So 
near  along  life's  stream  are  the  fountains  of  innocence 
and  youth  making  fertile  its  sandy  margin  ;  and  the 
voyageur  will  do  well  to  replenish  his  vessels  often  at 
these  uncontaminated  sources.  Some  youthful  spring, 
perchance,  still  empties  with  tinkling  music  into  the  old 
est  river,  even  when  it  is  falling  into  the  sea,  and  we 
imagine  that  its  music  is  distinguished  by  the  river-gods 
from  the  general  lapse  of  the  stream,  and  falls  sweeter 
on  their  ears  in  proportion  as  it  is  nearer  to  the  ocean. 
As  the  evaporations  of  the  river  feed  thus  these  unsus 
pected  springs  which  filter  through  its  banks,  so,  per- 


206  A    WEEK. 

chance,  our  aspirations  fall  back  again  in  springs  on  the 
margin  of  life's  stream  to  refresh  and  purify  it.  The 
yellow  and  tepid  river  may  float  his  scow,  and  cheer 
his  eye  with  its  reflections  and  its  ripples,  but  the 
boatman  quenches  his  thirst  at  this  small  rill  alone. 
It  is  this  purer  and  cooler  element  that  chiefly  sus 
tains  his  life.  The  race  will  long  survive  that  is  thus 
discreet. 

Our  course  this  morning  lay  between  the  territories  of 
Merrimack,  on  the  west,  and  Litchfield,  once  called 
Brenton's  Farm,  on  the  east,  which  townships  were  an 
ciently  the  Indian  Naticook.  Brenton  was  a  fur-trader 
among  the  Indians,  and  these  lands  were  granted  to  him 
in  1656.  The  latter  township  contains  about  five  hun 
dred  inhabitants,  of  whom,  however,  we  saw  none,  and 
but  few  of  their  dwellings.  Being  on  the  river,  whose 
banks  are  always  high  and  generally  conceal  the  few 
houses,  the  country  appeared  much  more  wild  and  primi 
tive  than  to  the  traveller  on  the  neighboring  roads.  The 
river  is  by  far  the  most  attractive  highway,  and  those 
boatmen  who  have  spent  twenty  or  twenty-five  years  on 
it  must  have  had  a  much  fairer,  more  wild,  and  memora 
ble  experience  than  the  dusty  and  jarring  one  of  the 
teamster  who  has  driven,  during  the  same  time,  on  the 
roads  which  run  parallel  with  the  stream.  As  one  as 
cends  the  Merrimack  he  rarely  sees  a  village,  but  for  the 
most  part  alternate  wood  and  pasture  lands,  and  some 
times  a  field  of  corn  or  potatoes,  of  rye  or  oats  or  Eng 
lish  grass,  with  a  few  straggling  apple-trees,  and,  at  still 
longer  intervals,  a  farmer's  house.  The  soil,  excepting 
»ne  best  of  the  interval,  is  commonly  as  light  and  sandy 
*s  a  patriot  could  desire.  Sometimes  this  forenoon  the 
country  appeared  in  its  primitive  state,  and  as  if  the 


TUESDAY.  207 

Indian  still  inhabited  it,  and,  again,  as  if  many  free,  new 
Bettlers  occupied  it,  their  slight  fences  straggling  down 
to  the  water's  edge  ;  and  the  barking  of  dogs,  and  even 
the  prattle  of  children,  were  heard,  and  smoke  Avas  seen 
to  go  up  from  some  hearthstone,  and  the  banks  were  di 
vided  into  patches  of  pasture,  mowing,  tillage,  and  wood 
land.  But  when  the  river  spread  out  broader,  with  an 
uninhabited  islet,  or  a  long,  low  sandy  shore  which  ran 
on  single  and  devious,  not  answering  to  its  opposite,  but 
far  off  as  if  it  were  sea-shore  or  single  coast,  and  the  land 
no  longer  nursed  the  river  in  its  bosom,  but  they  con 
versed  as  equals,  the  rustling  leaves  with  rippling  waves, 
and  few  fences  were  seen,  but  high  oak  woods  on  one 
side,  and  large  herds  of  cattle,  and  all  tracks  seemed  a 
point  to  one  centre  behind  some  statelier  grove,  —  we 
imagined  that  the  river  flowed  through  an  extensive 
manor,  and  that  the  few  inhabitants  were  retainers  to  a 
lord,  and  a  feudal  state  of  things  prevailed. 

When  there  was  a  suitable  reach,  we  caught  sight  of 
the  Goffstown  mountain,  the  Indian  Uncannunuc,  rising 
before  us  on  the  west  side.  It  was  a  calm  and  beautiful 
lay,  with  only  a  slight  zephyr  to  ripple  the  surface  of  the 
water,  and  rustle  the  woods  on  shore,  and  just  warmth 
enough  to  prove  the  kindly  disposition  of  Nature  to  her 
children.  With  buoyant  spirits  and  vigorous  impulses  we 
tossed  our  boat  rapidly  along  into  the  very  middle  of  this 
forenoon.  The  fish-hawk  sailed  and  screamed  overhead. 
The  chipping  or  striped  squirrel,  Sciurus  striatus  (  Tamias 
Lysteri,  And.),  sat  upon  the  end  of  some  Virginia  fence 
or  rider  reaching  over  the  stream,  twirling  a  green  nut 
with  one  paw,  as  in  a  lathe,  while  the  other  held  it  fast 
against  its  incisors  as  chisels.  Like  an  independent 
leaf,  with  a  will  of  its  own,  rustling  whither  it 


208  A    WEKK. 

could ;  now  under  the  fence,  now  over  it,  now  peeping 
at  the  voyageurs  through  a  crack  with  only  its  tail  visi 
ble,  now  at  its  lunch  deep  in  the  toothsome  kernel,  and 
now  a  rod  off  playing  at  hide-and-seek,  with  the  nut 
stowed  away  in  its  chops,  where  were  half  a  dozen  more 
besides,  extending  its  cheeks  to  a  ludicrous  breadth,  —  as 
if  it  were  devising  through  what  safe  valve  of  frisk  or 
somerset  to  let  its  superfluous  life  escape ;  the  stream 
passing  harmlessly  off,  even  while  it  sits,  in  constant 
electric  flashes  through  its  tail.  And  now  with  a  chuck 
ling  squeak  it  dives  into  the  root  of  a  hazel,  and  we  see 
no  more  of  it.  Or  the  larger  red  squirrel  or  chickaree, 
sometimes  called  the  Hudson  Bay  squirrel  (Scriunu 
Ifudsonius),gi\ve  warning  of  our  approach  by  that  pecu 
liar  alarum  of  his,  like  the  winding  up  of  some  strong 
clock,  in  the  top  of  a  pine-tree,  and  dodged  behind  its 
stem,  or  leaped  from  tree  to  tree  with  such  caution  and 
adroitness,  as  if  much  depended  on  the  fidelity  of  his 
scout,  running  along  the  \vhitc-pine  boughs  sometimes 
twenty  rods  by  our  side,  with  such  speed,  and  by  such 
unerring  routes,  as  if  it  were  some  well-worn  familiar 
path  to  him ;  and  presently,  when  we  have  passed,  he 
returns  to  his  work  of  cutting  off  the  pine-cones,  and 
letting  them  fall  to  the  ground. 

We  passed  Cromwell's  Falls,  the  first  we  met  with  on 
this  river,  this  forenoon,  by  means  of  locks,  without  using 
our  wheels.  These  falls  are  the  Nesenkeag  of  the 
Indians.  Great  Nesenkeag  Stream  comes  in  on  the 
right  just  above,  and  Little  Nesenkeag  some  distance 
below,  both  in  Litchfield.  We  read  in  the  Gazetteer 
under  the  head  of  Merrimack,  that  "  The  first  house  in 
this  town  was  erected  on  the  margin  of  the  river  ["soon 
1GG5]  for  a  house  of  traffic  with  the  Indians.  Foi 


TUESDAY.  20U 

*ome  time  one  Cromwell  carried  on  a  lucrative  trade 
with  them,  weighing  their  furs  with  his  foot,  till,  enraged 
at  his  supposed  or  real  deception,  they  formed  the  reso 
lution  to  murder  him.  This  intention  being  communicated 
to  Cromwell,  he  buried  his  wealth  and  made  his  escape. 
Within  a  few  hours  after  his  flight,  a  party  of  the  Pena- 
cook  tribe  arrived,  and,  not  finding  the  object  of  their 
resentment,  burnt  his  habitation."  Upon  the  top  of  the 
high  bank  here,  close  to  the  river,  was  still  to  be  seen 
his  cellar,  now  overgrown  with  trees.  It  was  a  con 
venient  spot  for  such  a  traffic,  at  the  foot  of  the  first  falls 
above  the  settlements,  and  commanding  a  pleasant  view 
up  the  river,  where  he  could  see  the  Indians  coming 
down  with  their  furs.  The  lock-man  told  us  that  his 
shovel  and  tongs  had  been  ploughed  up  here,  and  also  a 
stone  with  his  name  on  it.  But  we  will  not  vouch  for 
the  truth  of  this  story.  In  the  New  Hampshire  His 
torical  Collections  for  1815  it  says,  "Some  time  after 
pewter  was  found  in  the  well,  and  an  iron  pot  and 
trammel  in  the  sand ;  the  latter  are  preserved."  These 
were  the  traces  of  the  white  trader.  On  the  opposite 
bank,  where  it  jutted  over  the  stream  cape-wise,  we 
picked  up  four  arrow-heads  and  a  small  Indian  tool 
made  of  stone,  as  soon  as  we  had  climbed  it,  where 
plainly  there  had  once  stood  a  wigwam  of  the  Indians 
with  whom  Cromwell  traded,  and  who  fished  and  hunted 
here  before  he  came. 

As  usual  the  gossips  have  not  been  silent  respecting 
Cromwell's  buried  wealth,  and  it  is  said  that  some  years 
ago  a  farmer's  plough,  not  far  from  here,  slid  over  a  flat 
Btone  which  emitted  a  hollow  sound,  and,  on  its  being 
raised,  a  small  hole  six  inches  in  diameter  was  discov 
ered,  stoned  about,  from  which  a  sum  of  money  was 


210  A    WKEK. 

taken.  The  lock-man  told  us  another  similar  story  about 
a  farmer  in  a  neighboring  town,  who  had  been  a  poor 
man,  but  who  suddenly  bought  a  good  farm,  and  was 
well  to  do  in  the  world,  and,  when  he  was  questioned, 
did  not  give  a  satisfactory  account  of  the  matter ;  how 
few,  alas,  could  !  This  caused  his  hired  man  to  remem 
ber  that  one  day,  as  they  were  ploughing  together,  the 
plough  struck  something,  and  his  employer,  going  back 
to  look,  concluded  not  to  go  round  again,  saying  that  the 
sky  looked  rather  lowering,  and  so  put  up  his  team.  The 
like  urgency  has  caused  many  things  to  be  remembered 
which  never  transpired.  The  truth  is,  there  is  money 
buried  everywhere,  and  you  have  only  to  go  to  work  to 
find  it. 

Not  far  from  these  falls  stands  an  oak-tree,  on  the 
interval,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  river,  on  the 
farm  of  a  Mr.  Lund,  which  was  pointed  out  to  us  as  the 
spot  where  French,  the  leader  of  the  party  which  went 
in  pursuit  of  the  Indians  from  Dunstable,  was  killed. 
Farwell  dodged  them  in  the  thick  woods  near.  It  did 
not  look  as  if  men  had  ever  had  to  run  for  their  lives  on 
this  now  open  and  peaceful  interval. 

Here  too  was  another  extensive  desert  by  the  side  of 
the  road  in  Litchfield,  visible  from  the  bank  of  the  river. 
The  sand  was  blown  off  in  some  places  to  the  depth  of 
en  or  twelve  feet,  leaving  small  grotesque  hillocks  of 
that  height,  where  there  was  a  clump  of  bushes  firmly 
looted.  Thirty  or  forty  years  ago,  as  we  were  told,  it 
was  a  sheep-pasture,  but  the  sheep,  being  worried  by  the 
fleas,  began  to  paw  the  ground,  till  they  broke  the  sod, 
and  so  the  sand  began  to  blow,  till  now  it  had  extended 
over  forty  or  fifty  acres.  This  evil  might  easily  have 
been  remedied,  at  first,  by  spreading  birches  with  theif 


TUESDAY.  211 

leaves  on  over  the  sand,  and  fastening  them  down  with 
stakes,  to  break  the  wind.  The  fleas  bit  the  sheep,  and 
the  sheep  bit  the  ground,  and  the  sore  had  spread  to 
this  extent.  It  is  astonishing  what  a  great  sore  a  little 
scratch  breedeth.  Who  knows  but  Sahara,  where  cara 
vans  and  cities  are  buried,  began  with  the  bite  of  an 
African  flea  ?  This  poor  globe,  how  it  must  itch  in  many 
places !  Will  no  god  be  kind  enough  to  spread  a  salve 
of  birches  over  its  sores  ?  Here  too  we  noticed  where 
the  Indians  had  gathered  a  heap  of  stones,  perhaps  for 
their  council-fire,  which,  by  their  weight  having  pre 
vented  the  sand  under  them  from  blowing  away,  were 
left  on  the  summit  of  a  mound.  They  told  us  that 
arrow-heads,  and  also  bullets  of  lead  and  iron,  had  been 
found  here.  We  noticed  several  other  sandy  tracts  in 
our  voyage ;  and  the  course  of  the  Merrimack  can  be 
traced  from  the  nearest  mountain  by  its  yellow  sand 
banks,  though  the  river  itself  is  for  the  most  part 
invisible.  Lawsuits,  as  we  hear,  have  in  some  cases 
grown  out  of  these  causes.  Railroads  have  been  made 
through  certain  irritable  districts,  breaking  their  sod,  and 
so  have  set  the  sand  to  blowing,  till  it  has  converted 
fertile  farms  into  deserts,  and  the  company  has  had  to 
pay  the  damages. 

This  sand  seemed  to  us  the  connecting  link  between 
land  and  water.  It  was  a  kind  of  water  on  which  you 
;ould  walk,  and  you  could  see  the  ripple-marks  on  its 
Mrface,  produced  by  the  winds,  precisely  like  those  at 
the  bottom  of  a  brook  or  lake.  We  had  read  that  Mus- 
sulmen  are  permitted  by  the  Koran  to  perform  their 
ablutions  in  sand  when  they  cannot  get  water,  a  necessary 
indulgence  in  Arabia,  and  we  now  understood  the  pro 
priety  of  this  provision. 


212  A    WEEK. 

Plum  Island,  at  the  mouth  of  this  river,  to  whose 
formation,  perhaps,  these  very  banks  have  sent  their 
contribution,  is  a  similar  desert  of  drifting  sand,  of 
various  colors,  blown  into  graceful  curves  by  the  wind. 
It  is  a  mere  sand-bar  exposed,  stretching  nine  miles  par 
allel  to  the  coast,  and,  exclusive  of  the  marsh  on  the 
inside,  rarely  more  than  half  a  mile  wide.  There  are 
but  half  a  dozen  houses  on  it,  and  it  is  almost  without  a 
tree,  or  a  sod,  or  any  green  thing  with  which  a  country 
man  is  familiar.  The  thin  vegetation  stands  half  buried 
in  sand,  as  in  drifting  snow.  The  only  shrub,  the  beach- 
plum,  which  gives  the  island  its  name,  grows  but  a  few 
feet  high  ;  but  this  is  so  abundant  that  parties  of  a  hun 
dred  at  once  come  from  the  main-land  and  down  the 
Merrimat'k,  in  September,  pitch  their  tents,  and  gather 
the  plums,  which  are  good  to  eat  raw  and  to  preserve. 
The  graceful  and  delicate  beach-pea,  too,  grows  abun 
dantly  amid  the  sand,  and  several  strange,  moss-like  and 
succulent  plants.  The  island  for  its  whole  length  is 
scolloped  into  low  hills,  not  more  than  twenty  feet  high, 
by  the  wind,  and,  excepting  a  faint  trail  on  the  edge  of 
the  marsh,  is  as  trackless  as  Sahara.  There  are  dreary 
bluffs  of  sand  and  valleys  ploughed  by  the  wind,  where 
you  might  expect  to  discover  the  bones  of  a  caravan. 
Schooners  come  from  Boston  to  load  Avith  the  sand  for 
masons'  uses,  and  in  a  few  hours  the  wind  obliterates  all 
traces  of  their  work.  Yet  you  have  only  to  dig  a  foot 
or  two  anywhere  to  come  to  fresh  water ;  and  you  are 
surprised  to  learn  that  woodchucks  abound  here,  and 
foxes  are  found,  though  you  see  not  where  they  car 
burrow  or  hide  themselves.  I  have  walked  down  the 
whole  length  of  its  broad  beach  at  low  tide,  at  which 
time  alone  you  can  find  a  firm  ground  to  walk  on.  and 


TUESDAY.  213 

probably  Massachusetts  does  not  furnish  a  more  grand 
and  dreary  walk.  On  the  seaside  there  are  only  a 
distant  sail  and  a  few  coots  to  break  the  grand  monot 
ony.  A  solitary  stake  stuck  up,  or  a  sharper  sand-hill 
than  usual,  is  remarkable  as  a  landmark  for  miles ; 
while  for  music  you  hear  only  the  ceaseless  sound  of  the 
surf,  and  the  dreary  peep  of  the  beach-birds. 

There  were  several  canal-boats  at  Cromwell's  Falls 
passing  through  the  locks,  for  which  we  waited.  In  the 
forward  part  of  one  stood  a  brawny  New  Hampshire 
man,  leaning  on  his  pole,  bareheaded  and  in  shirt  and 
trousers  only,  a  rude  Apollo  of  a  man,  coming  down 
from  that  "vast  uplandish  country"  to  the  main;  of 
nameless  age,  with  flaxen  hair,  and  vigorous,  weather- 
bleached  countenance,  in  whose  wrinkles  the  sun  still 
lodged,  as  little  touched  by  the  heats  and  frosts  and 
withering  cares  of  life  as  a  maple  of  the  mountain  ;  an 
undressed,  unkempt,  uncivil  man,  with  whom  we  par 
leyed  awhile,  and  parted  not  without  a  sincere  interest 
in  one  another.  His  humanity  was  genuine  and  in 
stinctive,  and  his  rudeness  only  a  manner.  He  in 
quired,  just  as  we  were  passing  out  of  earshot,  if  we  had 
killed  anything,  and  we  shouted  after  him  that  we  had 
shot  a  buoy,  and  could  see  him  for  a  long  while  scratch 
ing  his  head  in  vain  to  know  if  he  had  heard  aright. 

There  is  reason  in  the  distinction  of  civil  and  uncivil. 
The  manners  are  sometimes  so  rough  a  rind  that  we 
doubt  whether  they  cover  any  core  or  sap-wood  at  all. 
We  sometimes  meet  uncivil  men,  children  of  Amazons, 
who  dwell  by  mountain  paths,  and  are  said  to  be  inhos 
pitable  to  strangers ;  whose  salutation  is  as  rude  as  the 
grasp  of  their  brawny  hands,  and  who  deal  with  men  as 


214  A   WKI-:K. 

unceremoniously  as  they  are  wont  to  deal  with  the  ele 
ments.  They  need  only  to  extend  their  clearings,  and 
let  in  more  sunlight,  to  seek  out  the  southern  slopes  of 
the  hills,  from  which  they  may  look  down  on  the  civil 
plain  or  ocean,  and  temper  their  diet  duly  with  the  ce 
real  fruits,  consuming  less  wild  meat  and  acorns,  to  be 
come  like  the  inhabitants  of  cities.  A  true  politeness 
does  not  result  from  any  hasty  and  artificial  polishing, 
it  is  true,  but  grows  naturally  in  characters  of  the  right 
grain  and  quality,  through  a  long  fronting  of  men  and 
events,  and  rubbing  on  good  and  bad  fortune.  Perhaps 
I  can  tell  a  tale  to  the  purpose  while  the  lock  is  filling, 
—  for  our  voyage  this  forenoon  furnishes  but  few  inci 
dents  of  importance. 

Early  one  summer  morning  I  had  left  the  shores  of 
the  Connecticut,  and  for  the  livelong  day  travelled  up 
the  bank  of  a  river,  which  came  in  from  the  west ; 
now  looking  down  on  the  stream,  foaming  and  rippling 
through  the  forest  a  mile  off,  from  the  hills  over  which 
the  road  led,  and  now  sitting  on  its  rocky  brink  and 
dipping  my  feet  in  its  rapids,  or  bathing  adventurously 
in  mid-channel.  The  hills  grew  more  and  more  fre 
quent,  and  gradually  swelled  into  mountains  as  I  ad 
vanced,  hemming  in  the  course  of  the  river,  so  that  at 
last  I  could  not  see  where  it  came  from,  and  was  at 
liberty  to  imagine  the  most  wonderful  meanderings  and 
descents.  At  noon  I  slept  on  the  grass  in  the  shade 
of  a  maple,  where  the  river  had  found  a  broader  chan 
nel  than  usual,  and  was  spread  out  shallow,  with  fre 
quent  sand-bars  exposed.  In  the  names  of  the  towns 
I  recognized  some  which  I  had  long  ago  read  on  team 
sters'  wagons,  that  had  come  from  far  up  country  ;  quiet 


TUESDAY.  215 

uplandish  towns,  of  mountainous  fame.  I  walked 
along,  musing  and  enchanted,  by  rows  of  sugar-maples, 
through  the  small  and  uninquisitive  villages,  and  some 
times  was  pleased  with  the  sight  of  a  boat  drawn  up  on 
a  sand-bar,  where  there  appeared  no  inhabitants  to  use 
it.  It  seemed,  however,  as  essential  to  the  river  as  a 
fish,  and  to  lend  a  certain  dignity  to  it.  It  was  like  the 
trout  of  mountain  streams  to  the  fishes  of  the  sea,  or 
like  the  young  of  the  land-crab  born  far  in  the  interior, 
who  have  never  yet  heard  the  sound  of  the  ocean's  surf. 
The  hills  approached  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  stream, 
until  at  last  they  closed  behind  me,  and  I  found  myself 
just  before  nightfall  in  a  romantic  and  retired  valley, 
about  half  a  mile  in  length,  and  barely  wide  enough  for 
the  stream  at  its  bottom.  I  thought  that  there  could  be 
no  finer  site  for  a  cottage  among  mountains.  You  could 
anywhere  run  across  the  stream  on  the  rocks,  and  its 
constant  murmuring  would  quiet  the  passions  of  mankind 
forever.  Suddenly  the  road,  which  seemed  aiming  for 
the  mountain-side,  turned  short  to  the  left,  and  another 
valley  opened,  concealing  the  former,  and  of  the  same 
character  with  it.  It  was  the  most  remarkable  and 
pleasing  scenery  I  had  ever  seen.  I  found  here  a  few 
mild  and  hospitable  inhabitants,  who,  as  the  day  was  not 
quite  spent,  and  I  was  anxious  to  improve  the  light, 
directed  me  four  or  five  miles  farther  on  my  way  to  the 
dwelling  of  a  man  whose  name  was  Rice,  who  occupied 
'lie  last  and  highest  of  the  valleys  that  lay  in  my  path, 
and  who,  they  said,  was  a  rather  rude  and  uncivil  man. 
But  "what  is  a  fjreign  country  to  those  who  have, 
science  ?  Who  is  a  stranger  to  those  who  have  the 
habit  of  speaking  kindly  ?  " 

At  length,  as  the  sun  was  setting  behind  the  moun 


1  A    WEEK. 

tains  in  a  still  darker  and  more  solitary  vale,  I  reached 
the  dwelling  of  this  man.  Except  for  the  narrowness 
of  the  plain,  and  that  the  stones  were  solid  granite,  it  was 
the  counterpart  of  that  retreat  to  which  Belphcebe  bore 
the  wounded  Timias,  — 

"  In  a  pleasant  glade, 
With  mountains  round  about  environed, 
And  mighty  woods,  which  did  the  valley  shade, 
And  like  a  stately  theatre  it  made, 
Spreading  itself  into  a  spacious  plain ; 
And  in  the  midst  a  little  river  played 
Amongst  the  pumy  stones  which  seemed  to  plain, 
With  gentle  murmur,  that  his  course  they  did  restrain." 

I  observed,  as  I  drew  near,  that  he  was  not  so  rude  as  1 
had  anticipated,  for  he  kept  many  cattle,  and  dogs  to  watch 
them,  and  I  saw  where  he  had  made  maple-sugar  on  the 
sides  of  the  mountains,  and  above  all  distinguished  the 
voices  of  children  mingling  with  the  murmur  of  the  tor 
rent  before  the  door.  As  I  passed  his  stable  I  met  one 
whom  I  supposed  to  be  a  hired  man,  attending  to  his 
cattle,  and  I  inquired  if  they  entertained  travellers  at 
that  house.  u  Sometimes  we  do,"  he  answered,  gruffly, 
and  immediately  went  to  the  farthest  stall  from  me,  and 
I  perceived  that  it  was  Rice  himself  whom  I  had  ad 
dressed.  But  pardoning  this  incivility  to  the  wildness  of 
the  scenery,  I  bent  my  steps  to  the  house.  There  was 
no  sign-post  before  it,  nor  any  of  the  usual  invitations 
to  the  traveller,  though  I  saw  by  the  road  that  many 
went  and  camo  there,  but  the  owner's  name  only  was  fa>t- 
ened  to  the  outside;  a  sort  of  implied  and  sullen  invita- 
tiDn,  as  I  thought.  I  passed  from  room  to  room  without 
meeting  any  one,  till  I  came  to  what  seemed  the  guests 
apartment,  which  was  neat,  and  even  had  an  air  of  re 
finement  about  it,  and  I  was  glad  to  find  a  map  again§/ 


TUESDAY.  217 

the  wall  which  would  direct  me  on  my  journey  on  the 
morrow.  At  length  I  heard  a  step  in  a  distant  apart 
ment,  which  was  the  first  I  had  entered,  and  went  to 
see  if  the  landlord  had  come  in ;  but  it  proved  to  be 
only  a  child,  one  of  those  whose  voices  I  had  heard, 
probably  his  son,  and  between  him  and  me  stood  in  the 
doorway  a  large  watch-dog,  which  growled  at  me,  and 
looked  as  if  he  would  presently  spring,  but  the  boy  did  not 
speak  to  him ;  and  when  I  asked  for  a  glass  of  water, 
he  briefly  said,  "  It  runs  in  the  corner."  So  I  took  a 
mug  from  the  counter  and  went  out  of  doors,  and 
searched  round  the  corner  of  the  house,  but  could  find 
neither  well  nor  spring,  nor  any  water  but  the  stream 
which  ran  all  along  the  front.  I  came  back,  therefore, 
and,  setting  down  the  mug,  asked  the  child  if  the  stream 
was  good  to  drink ;  whereupon  he  seized  the  mug,  and, 
going  to  the  corner  of  the  room,  where  a  cool  spring 
which  issued  from  the  mountain  behind  trickled  through 
a  pipe  into  the  apartment,  filled  it,  and  drank,  and  gave 
it  to  me  empty  again,  and,  calling  to  the  dog,  rushed  out 
of  doors.  Erelong  some  of  the  hired  men  made  their 
appearance,  and  drank  at  the  spring,  and  lazily  washed 
themselves  and  combed  their  hair  in  silence,  and  some 
sat  down  as  if  weary,  and  fell  asleep  in  their  seats. 
But  all  the  while  I  saw  no  women,  though  I  sometimes 
heard  a  bustle  in  that  part  of  the  house  from  which  the 
spring  came. 

At  length  Rice  himself  came  in,  for  it  was  now  dark, 
with  an  ox-whip  in  his  hand,  breathing  hard,  and  he  too 
BOOH  settled  down  into  his  seat  not  far  from  me,  as  if,  now 
that  his  day's  work  was  done,  he  had  no  farther  to  travel, 
but  only  to  digest  his  supper  at  his  leisure.  When  I 
asked  him  if  he  could  give  me  a  bed,  he  said  there  waa 

10 


218  A     WKEK. 

one  ready,  in  such  a  tone  as  implied  that  1  ought  to  have 
known  it,  and  the  less  said  about  that  the  better.  So  far 
BO  good.  And  yet  he  continued  to  look  at  me  as  if  he 
would  fain  have  me  say  something  further  like  a  trav 
eller.  I  remarked,  that  it  was  a  wild  and  rugged  coun 
try  he  inhabited,  and  worth  coming  many  miles  to  see. 
"  Not  so  very  rough  neither,"  said  he,  and  appealed  to  his 
men  to  bear  witness  to  the  breadth  and  smoothness  of 
his  fields,  which  consisted  in  all  of  one  small  interval, 
and  to  the  size  of  his  crops;  "and  if  we  have  some 
hills,"  added  he,  "there's  no  better  pasturage  any 
where."  I  then  asked  if  this  place  was  the  one  I  had 
heard  of,  calling  it  by  a  name  I  had  seen  on  the  map, 
or  if  it  was  a  certain  other ;  and  he  answered,  grufily, 
that  it  was  neither  the  one  nor  the  other ;  that  he  had 
settled  it  and  cultivated  it,  and  made  it  what  it  was, 
and  I  could  know  nothing  about  it.  Observing  some 
gtwis  and  other  implements  of  hunting  hanging  on 
brackets  around  the  room,  and  his  hounds  now  sleeping 
on  the  floor,  I  took  occasion  to  change  the  discourse, 
and  inquired  if  there  was  much  game  in  that  country, 
and  he  answered  this  question  more  graciously,  having 
pome  glimmering  of  my  drift;  but  when  I  inquired  if 
there  were  any  bears,  he  answered  impatiently  that  he 
was  no  more  in  danger  of  losing  his  sheep  than  his 
neighbors;  he  had  tamed  and  civilized  that  region. 
After  a  pause,  thinking  of  my  journey  on  the  morrow, 
and  the  few  hours  of  daylight  in  that  hollow  and  moun 
tainous  country,  which  would  require  me  to  be  on  my 
way  betimes,  I  remarked  that  the  day  must  be  shorter 
by  an  hour  there  than  on  the  neighboring  plains ;  a/ 
which  he  gruffly  asked  what  I  knew  about  it,  and  af 
firmed  that  he  had  as  much  daylight  as  his  neighbors 


TUESDAY.  219 

he  ventured  to  say,  the  days  were  longer  there  than 
where  I  lived,  as  I  should  find  if  I  stayed ;  that  in  some 
way,  I  could  not  be  expected  to  understand  how,  the 
Bun  came  over  the  mountains  half  an  hour  earlier,  and 
stayed  half  an  hour  later  there  than  on  the  neighboring 
plains.  And  more  of  like  sort  he  said.  He  was,  in 
deed,  as  rude  as  a  fabled  satyr.  But  I  suffered  him  to 
pass  for  what  he  was,  —  for  why  should  I  quarrel  with 
nature?  —  and  was  even  pleased  at  the  discovery  of  such 
a  singular  natural  phenomenon.  I  dealt  with  him  as 
if  to  me  all  manners  were  indifferent,  and  he  had  a 
sweet,  wild  way  with  him.  I  would  not  question  na 
ture,  and  I  would  rather  have  him  as  he  was  than  as  I 
would  have  him.  For  I  had  come  up  here  not  for  sym 
pathy,  or  kindness,  or  society,  but  for  novelty  and  ad 
venture,  and  to  see  what  nature  had  produced  here.  I 
therefore  did  not  repel  his  rudeness,  but  quite  innocently 
welcomed  it  all,  and  knew  how  to  appreciate  it,  as  if  I 
were  reading  in  an  old  drama  a  part  well  sustained. 
He  was  indeed  a  coarse  and  sensual  man,  and,  as  I 
have  said,  uncivil,  but  he  had  his  just  quarrel  with  na 
ture  and  mankind,  I  have  no  doubt,  only  he  had  no 
artificial  covering  to  his  ill-humors.  He  was  earthy 
enough,  but  yet  there  was  good  soil  in  him,  and  even  a 
long-suffering  Saxon  probity  at  bottom.  If  you  could 
represent  the  case  to  him,  he  would  not  let  the  race  die 
out  in  him,  like  a  red  Indian. 

At  length  I  told  him  that  he  was  a  fortunate  man,  and 
I  trusted  that  he  was  grateful  for  so  much  light ;  and, 
rising,  said  I  would  take  a  lamp,  and  that  I  would  pay 
him  then  for  my  lodging,  for  I  expected  to  recommence 
my  journey  even  as  early  as  the  sun  rose  in  his  country  ; 
but  he  answered  in  haste,  and  this  time  civilly,  that  I 


<>20  A    WEEK. 

should  not  f;iil  to  find  some  of  his  household  stirring, 
however  early,  for  they  were  no  sluggards,  and  I  could 
take  my  breakfast  with  them  before  I  started,  if  I  chose  ; 
nnd  as  he  lighted  the  lamp  I  detected  a  gleam  of  true 
hospitality  and  ancient  civility,  a  beam  of  pure  and  even 
gentle  humanity,  from  his  bleared  and  moist  eyes.  It 
was  a  look  more  intimate  with  me,  and  more  explana 
tory,  than  any  words  of  his  could  have  been  if  he  had 
tried  to  his  dying  day.  It  was  more  significant  than 
any  Rice  of  those  parts  could  even  comprehend,  and 
long  anticipated  this  man's  culture,  —  a  glance  of  his 
pure  genius,  which  did  not  much  enlighten  him,  bpt  did 
impress  and  rule  him  for  the  moment,  and  faintly  con 
strain  his  voice  and  manner.  He  cheerfully  led  the  way 
to  my  apartment,  stepping  over  the  limbs  of  his  men, 
who  were  asleep  on  the  floor  in  an  intervening  chamber, 
and  showed  me  a  clean  and  comfortable  bed.  For  man}'' 
pleasant  hours  after  the  household  was  asleep  I  sat  at 
the  open  window,  for  it  was  a  sultry  night,  and  heard 
the  little  river 

"  Amongst  the  pumy  stones,  which  seemed  to  plain, 
With  gentle  murmur,  that  his  course  they  did  restrain." 

But  I  arose  as  usual  by  starlight  the  next  morning,  be 
fore  my  host,  or  his  men,  or  even  his  dogs,  were  awake ; 
and,  having  left  a  ninepence  on  the  counter,  was  already 
half-way  over  the  mountain  with  the  sun  before  they 
had  broken  their  fast. 

Before  I  had  left  the  country  of  my  host,  while  the 
first  rays  of  the  sun  slanted  over  the  mountains,  as  I 
stopped  by  the  wayside  to  gather  some  raspberries,  a 
very  old  man,  not  far  from  a  hundred,  came  along  with 
A  milking-pail  in  his  hand,  and  turning  aside  tesran  tc 
pluck  the  berries  near  me  •  — 


TUESDAY.  221 

"  His  reverend  locks 
In  comelye  curies  did  wave; 
And  on  his  aged  temples  grew 
The  blossoms  of  the  grave." 

But  when  I  inquired  the  way,  he  answered  in  a  low, 
rough  voice,  without  looking  up  or  seeming  to  regard  my 
presence,  which  I  imputed  to  his  years ;  and  presently, 
muttering  to  himself,  he  proceeded  to  collect  his  cows  in 
a  neighboring  pasture ;  and  when  he  had  again  returned 
near  to  the  wayside,  he  suddenly  stopped,  while  his  cows 
went  on  before,  and,  uncovering  his  head,  prayed  aloud 
in  the  cool  morning  air,  as  if  he  had  forgotten  this  ex 
ercise  before,  for  his  daily  bread,  and  also  that  He  who 
letteth  his  rain  fall  on  the  just  and  on  the  unjust,  and 
without  whom  not  a  sparrow  falleth  to  the  ground, 
would  not  neglect  the  stranger  (meaning  me),  and  with 
even  more  direct  and  personal  applications,  though 
mainly  according  to  the  long-established  formula  com 
mon  to  lowlanders  and  the  inhabitants  of  mountains. 
When  he  had  done  praying,  I  made  bold  to  ask  him  if 
he  had  any  cheese  in  his  hut  which  he  would  sell  me, 
but  he  answered  without  looking  up,  and  in  the  same 
low  and  repulsive  voice  as  before,  that  they  did  not 
make  any,  and  went  to  milking.  It  is  written,  "The 
stranger  who  turneth  away  from  a  house  with  disap 
pointed  hopes,  leaveth  there  his  own  offences,  and  de- 
parteth,  taking  with  him  all  the  good  actions  of  the 


Being  now  fairly  in  the  stream  of  this  week's  com 
merce,  we  began  to  meet  with  boats  more  frequently, 
And  hailed  them  from  time  to  tims  with  the  freedom  of 
Bailors.  The  boatmen  appeared  to  lead  an  easy  and 


222  A    WEKK. 

contented  life,  and  we  thought  that  we  should  prefer 
their  employment  ourselves  to  many  professions  which 
are  much  more  sought  after.  They  suggested  how 
few  circumstances  are  necessary  to  the  well-being  and 
serenity  of  man,  how  indifferent  all  employments  are, 
and  that  any  may  seem  noble  and  poetic  to  the  eyes 
of  men,  if  pursued  with  sufficient  buoyancy  and  free 
dom.  With  liberty  and  pleasant  weather,  the  simplest 
occupation,  any  unquestioned  country  mode  of  life  which 
detains  us  in  the  open  air,  is  alluring.  The  man  who 
picks  peas  steadily  for  a  living  is  more  than  respectable 
he  is  even  envied  by  his  shop-worn  neighbors.  We  are 
as  happy  as  the  birds  when  our  Good  Genius  permita 
us  to  pursue  any  out-door  work,  without  a  sense  of  dis 
sipation.  Our  penknife  glitters  in  the  sun ;  our  voice  is 
echoed  by  yonder  wood ;  if  an  oar  drops,  we  are  fain  to 
let  it  drop  again. 

The  canal-boat  is  of  very  simple  construction,  requir 
ing  but  little  ship-timber,  and,  as  we  were  told,  costs  about 
two  hundred  dollars.  They  are  managed  by  two  men. 
In  ascending  the  stream  they  use  poles  fourteen  or  fif 
teen  feet  long,  pointed  with  iron,  walking  about  one 
third  the  length  of  the  boat  from  the  forward  end. 
Going  down,  they  commonly  keep  in  the  middle  of  the 
stream,  using  an  oar  at  each  end ;  or  if  the  wind  is  fa 
vorable  they  raise  their  broad  sail,  and  have  only  to 
steer.  They  commonly  carry  down  wood  or  bricks,-— 
fifteen  or  sixteen  cords  of  wood,  and  as  many  thousand 
bricks,  at  a  time,  —  and  bring  back  stores  for  the  coun 
try,  consuming  two  or  three  days  each  way  between  Con 
cord  and  Chariestown.  They  sometimes  pile  the  wood 
BO  as  to  leave  a  shelter  in  one  part  where  they  may  retire 
from  the  rain.  One  can  hardly  imagine  a  more  health. 


TUESDAY.  223 

fill  employment,  or  one  more  favorable  to  contemplation 
and  the  observation  of  nature.  Unlike  the  mariner, 
they  have  the  constantly  varying  panorama  of  the  shore 
to  relieve  the  monotony  of  their  labor,  and  it  seemed  to 
us  that  as  they  thus  glided  noiselessly  from  town  to 
town,  with  all  their  furniture  about  them,  for  their  very 
homestead  is  a  movable,  they  could  comment  on  the 
character  of  the  inhabitants  with  greater  advantage  and 
security  to  themselves  than  the  traveller  in  a  coach,  who 
would  be  unable  to  indulge  in  such  broadsides  of  wit 
and  humor  in  so  small  a  vessel  for  fear  of  the  recoil. 
They  are  not  subject  to  great  exposure,  like  the  lumber 
ers  of  Maine,  in  any  weather,  but  inhale  the  healthful- 
lest  breezes,  being  slightly  encumbered  with  clothing, 
frequently  with  the  head  and  feet  bare.  When  we  met 
them  at  noon  as  they  were  leisurely  descending  the 
stream,  their  busy  commerce  did  not  look  like  toil,  but 
rather  like  some  ancient  Oriental  game  still  played  on  a 
large  scale,  as  the  game  of  chess,  for  instance,  handed 
down  to  this  generation.  From  morning  till  night,  un 
less  the  wind  is  so  fair  that  his  single  sail  will  suffice 
without  other  labor  than  steering,  the  boatman  walks 
backwards  and  forwards  on  the  side  of  his  boat,  now 
stooping  with  his  shoulder  to  the  pole,  then  drawing  it 
back  slowly  to  set  it  again,  meanwhile  moving  steadily 
forward  through  an  endless  valley  and  an  everchanging 
scenery,  now  distinguishing  his  course  for  a  mile  or  two, 
and  now  shut  in  by  a  sudden  turn  of  the  river  in  a  small 
woodland  lake.  All  the  phenomena  which  surround  him 
are  simple  and  grand,  and  there  is  something  impressive, 
even  majestic,  in  the  very  motion  he  causes,  which  will 
naturally  be  communicated  to  his  own  character,  and  he 
feels  the  slow,  irresistible  movement  under  him  with 
pride,  as  if  it  were  his  own  energy. 


224  A    WEEK. 

The  news  spread  like  wildfire  among  us  youths,  when 
formerly,  once  in  a  year  or  two,  one  of  these  boats  came 
op  the  Concord  River,  and  was  seen  stealing  mysteri 
ously  through  the  meadows  and  past  the  village.  It 
came  and  departed  as  silently  as  a  cloud,  without  noise 
or  dust,  and  was  witnessed  by  few.  One  summer  day 
this  huge  traveller  might  be  seen  moored  at  some  mead 
ow's  wharf,  and  another  summer  day  it  was  not  there. 
Where  precisely  it  came  from,  or  who  these  men  were 
who  knew  the  rocks  and  soundings  better  than  we  who 
bathed  there,  we  could  never  tell.  We  knew  some 
river's  bay  only,  but  they  took  rivers  from  end  to  end. 
They  were  a  sort  of  fabulous  river-men  to  us.  It  was 
inconceivable  by  what  sort  of  mediation  any  mere  lands 
man  could  hold  communication  with  them.  Would  they 
heave  to,  to  gratify  his  wishes  ?  No,  it  was  favor  enough 
to  know  faintly  of  their  destination,  or  the  time  of  their 
possible  return.  I  have  seen  them  in  the  summer  when 
the  stream  ran  low,  mowing  the  weeds  in  mid-channel, 
and  with  hayers'  jests  cutting  broad  swaths  in  three 
feet  of  water,  that  they  might  make  a  passage  for  their 
scow,  while  the  grass  in  long  windrows  was  carried 
down  the  stream,  undried  by  the  rarest  hay-weather. 
We  admired  unweariedly  how  their  vessel  would  float, 
like  a  huge  chip,  sustaining  so  many  casks  of  lime, 
and  thousands  of  bricks,  and  such  heaps  of  iron  ore, 
with  wheelbarrows  aboard,  and  that,  when  we  stepped 
on  it,  it  did  not  yield  to  the  pressure  of  our  feet.  It 
gave  us  confidence  in  the  prevalence  of  the  law  of  buoy 
ancy,  and  we  imagined  to  what  infinite  uses  it  might  be 
put.  The  men  appeared  to  lead  a  kind  of  life  on  it,  and 
it  was  whispered  that  they  slept  aboard.  Some  affirmed 
*hat  it  carried  sail,  and  that  such  winds  blew  here  ai 


TUESDAY.  225 

filled  the  sails  of  vessels  on  the  ocean ;  which  again 
others  much  doubted.  They  had  been  seen  to  sail  across 
our  Fair  Haven  bay  by  lucky  fishers  who  were  out,  but 
unfortunately  others  were  not  there  to  see.  We  might 
then  say  that  our  river  was  navigable,  —  why  not  ?  In 
after-years  I  read  in  print,  with  no  little  satisfaction,  that 
it  was  thought  by  some  that,  with  a  little  expense  in  re 
moving  rocks  and  deepening  the  channel,  "  there  might 
be  a  profitable  inland  navigation."  /then  lived  some 
where  to  tell  of. 

Such  is  Commerce,  which  shakes  the  cocoa-nut  and 
bread-fruit  tree  in  the  remotest  isle,  and  sooner  or  later 
dawns  on  the  duskiest  and  most  simple-minded  savage. 
If  we  may  be  pardoned  the  digression,  who  can  help 
being  affected  at  the  thought  of  the  very  fine  and  slight, 
but  positive  relation,  in  which  the  savage  inhabitants  of 
some  remote  isle  stand  to  the  mysterious  white  mariner, 
the  child  of  the  sun  ?  —  as  if  we  were  to  have  dealings 
with  an  animal  higher  in  the  scale  of  being  than  our 
selves.  It  is  a  barely  recognized  fact  to  the  natives  that 
he  exists,  and  has  his  home  far  away  somewhere,  and  is 
glad  to  buy  their  fresh  fruits  with  his  superfluous  com 
modities.  Under  the  same  catholic  sun  glances  hia 
white  ship  over  Pacific  waves  into  their  smooth  bays, 
and  the  poor  savage's  paddle  gleams  in  the  air. 

Man's  little  acts  are  grand, 
Beheld  from  land  to  land, 
There  as  they  lie  in  time, 
Within  their  native  clime. 

Ships  with  the  noontide  weigh, 

And  glide  before  its  ray 

To  some  retired  bay, 

Their  haunt, 

Whence,  under  tropfo  \un, 

10*  • 


22G  A    WEEK. 

Again  they  run, 

Bearing  gum  Senegal  and  Tragicant. 
For  this  was  ocean  meant, 
For  this  the  suu  was  sent, 
And  moon  was  lent, 
And  winds  in  distant  caverns  pent. 

Since  our  voyage  the  railroad  on  the  bank  has  been 
extended,  and  there  is  now  but  little  boating  on  the 
Merrimack.  All  kinds  of  produce  and  stores  were 
formerly  conveyed  by  water,  but  now  nothing  is  carried 
up  the  stream,  and  almost  wood  and  bricks  alone  are 
carried  down,  and  these  are  also  carried  on  the  railroad. 
The  locks  are  fast  wearing  out,  and  will  soon  be  impas 
sable,  since  the  tolls  will  not  pay  the  expense  of  repair 
ing  them,  and  so  in  a  few  years  there  will  be  an  end 
of  boating  on  this  river.  The  boating  at  present  is 
principally  between  Merrimack  and  Lowell,  or  Ilook- 
tfett  and  Manchester.  They  make  two  or  three  trips 
in  a  week,  according  to  wind  and  weather,  from  Mer 
rimack  to  Lowell  and  back,  about  twenty-five  miles 
each  way.  The  boatman  comes  singing  in  to  shore  late 
at  night,  and  moors  his  empty  boat,  and  gets  his  supper 
and  lodging  in  some  house  near  at  hand,  and  again 
early  in  the  morning,  by  starlight  perhaps,  he  pushes 
away  up  stream,  and,  by  a  shout,  or  the  fragment  of  a 
song,  gives  notice  of  his  approach  to  the  lock-man,  with 
whom  he  is  to  take  his  breakfast.  If  he  gets  up  to  his 
wood-pile  before  noon  he  proceeds  to  load  his  boat,  with 
the  help  of  his  single  "  hand,"  and  is  on  his  way  down 
again  before  night.  When  he  gets  to  Lowell  he  un 
loads  his  boat,  and  gets  his  receipt  for  his  cargo,  and, 
having  heard  the  news  at  the  public  house  at  Middlesex 
or  elsewhere,  goes  back  with  his  empty  boat  and  his  re 
eeipt  in  his  pocket,  to  the  owner,  and  to  get  a  new  load 


TUESDAY.  227 

We  were  frequently  advertised  of  their  approach  by 
some  faint  sound  behind  us,  and  looking  round  saw  them 
a  mile  off,  creeping  stealthily  up  the  side  of  the  stream 
like  alligators.  It  was  pleasant  to  hail  these  sailors  of 
the  Merrimack  from  time  to  time,  and  learn  the  news 
which  circulated  with  them.  We  imagined  that  the  sun 
shining  on  their  bare  heads  had  stamped  a  liberal  and 
public  character  on  their  most  private  thoughts. 

The  open  and  sunny  interval  still  stretched  awaj 
from  the  river  sometimes  by  two  or  more  terraces,  to 
the  distant  hill-country,  and  when  we  climbed  the  bank 
we  commonly  found  an  irregular  copse-wood  skirting 
the  river,  the  primitive  having  floated  down-stream  long 

ago  to the  "  King's  navy."     Sometimes  we  saw  the 

river-road  a  quarter  or  half  a  mile  distant,  and  the  par 
ticolored  Concord  stage,  with  its  cloud  of  dust,  its  van 
of  earnest  travelling  faces,  and  its  rear  of  dusty  trunks, 
reminding  us  that  the  country  had  its  places  of  rendez 
vous  for  restless  Yankee  men.  There  dwelt  along  at 
considerable  distances  on  this  interval  a  quiet  agricul 
tural  and  pastoral  people,  with  every  house  its  well,  as 
we  sometimes  proved,  and  every  household,  though 
never  so  still  and  remote  it  appeared  in  the  noontide,  its 
dinner  about  these  times.  There  they  lived  on,  those 
New  England  people,  farmer  lives,  father  and  grand 
father  and  great-grandfather,  on  and  on  without  noise, 
keeping  up  tradition,  and  expecting,  beside  fair  weather 
and  abundant  harvests,  we  did  not  learn  what.  They 
were  contented  to  live,  since  it  was  so  contrived  for 
them,  and  where  their  lines  had  fallen. 

Our  uninquiring  corpses  lie  more  low 
Than  our  life's  curositf  doth  go. 

Yet  these  men  had  no  need  to  travel  to  be  as  wise  aa 


228  A     WEEK. 

Solomon  in  all  his  glory,  so  similar  are  the  lives  of  men 
in  all  countries,  and  fraught  with  the  same  homely  ex 
periences.  One  half  the  world  knows  how  the  other 
half  lives. 

About  noon  we  passed  a  small  village  in  Merrimack 
at  Thornton's  Ferry,  and  tasted  of  the  waters  of  Nati- 
cook  Brook  on  the  same  side,  where  French  and  his 
companions,  whose  grave  we  saw  in  D unstable,  were  am 
buscaded  by  the  Indians.  The  humble  village  of  Litch- 
field,  witlr  its  steepleless  meeting-house,  stood  on  the 
opposite  or  east  bank,  near  where  a  dense  grove  of  wil 
lows  backed  by  maples  skilled  the  shore.  There  also 
we  noticed  some  shagbark-trees,  which,  as  they  do  not 
grow  in  Concord,  were  as  strange  a  sight  to  us  as  the 
palm  would  be,  whose  fruit  only  we  have  seen.  Our 
course  now  curved  gracefully  to  the  north,  leaving  a  low, 
flat  shore  on  the  Merrimack  side,  which  forms  a  sort  of 
harbor  for  canal-boats.  We  observed  some  fair  elms 
and  particularly  large  and  handsome  white-maples  stand 
ing  conspicuously  on  this  interval ;  and  the  opposite  shore, 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  below,  was  covered  with  young  elms 
and  maples  six  inches  high,  which  had  probably  sprung 
from  the  seeds  which  had  been  washed  across. 

Some  carpenters  were  at  work  here  mending  a  scow 
on  the  green  and  sloping  bank.  The  strokes  of  their 
mallets  echoed  from  shore  to  shore,  and  up  and  down  the 
river,  and  their  tools  gleamed  in  the  sun  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  from  us,  and  we  realized  that  boat-building  was  as 
ancient  and  honorable  an  art  as  agriculture,  and  that 
there  might  be  a  naval  as  well  as  a  pastoral  life.  The 
whole  history  of  commerce  was  made  manifest  in  that 
scow  turned  bottom  upward  on  the  shore.  Thus  did 
men  begin  to  go  down  upon  the  sea  in  ships  ;  quceque  din 


TUESDAY.  229 

tteterunt  in  tnontibus  altis,  Fluctibus  ignotis  insultavere 
zarince ;  "  and  keels  which  had  long  stood  on  high 
mountains  careered  insultingly  (insultavere)  over  un 
known  waves."  (Ovid,  Met.  I.  133.)  We  thought  that  it 
would  be  well  for  the  traveller  to  build  his  boat  on  the 
bank  of  a  stream,  instead  of  finding  a  ferry  or  a  bridge. 
In  the  Adventures  of  Henry  the  fur-trader,  it  is  pleasant 
to  read  that  when  with  hit.  Indians  he  reached  the  shore 
of  Ontario,  they  consumed  two  days  in  making  two 
canoes  of  the  bark  of  the  elm-tree,  in  which  to  transport 
themselves  to  Fort  Niagara.  It  is  a  worthy  incident  in 
a  journey,  a  delay  as  good  as  much  rapid  travelling.  A 
good  share  of  our  interest  in  Xenophon's  story  of  his  re 
treat  is  in  the  manoeuvres  to  get  the  army  safely  over 
the  rivers,  whether  on  rafts  of  logs  or  fagots,  or  sheep 
skins  blown  up.  And  where  could  they  better  afford  to 
tarry  meanwhile  than  on  the  banks  of  a  river  ? 

As  we  glided  past  at  a  distance,  these  out-door  work 
men  appeared  to  have  added  some  dignity  to  their  labor 
by  its  very  publicness.  It  was  a  part  of  the  industry  of 
nature,  like  the  work  of  hornets  and  mud-wasps. 

The  waves  slowly  beat, 
Just  to  keep  the  noon  sweet, 
And  no  sound  is  flouted  o'er, 
Save  the  mallet  on  shore, 
Which  echoing  on  high 
Seems  a-calking  the  sky. 

The  haze,  the  sun's  dust  of  travel,  had  a  Lethean  influ 
ence  on  the  land  and  its  inhabitants,  and  all  creatures 
resigned  themselves  to  float  upon  the  inappreciable  tides 
of  nature. 

Woof  of  the  sun,  ethe-eal  gauze, 
Woven  of  Nature's  richest  stuffs, 
Visible  heat,  air-wafer,  and  dry  sea, 


230  A    WEEK. 

Last  conquest  of  the  eye ; 

Toil  of  the  day  displayed,  sun-dnst, 

Aerial  surf  upon  the  shores  of  earth, 

Ethereal  estuary,  frith  of  light, 

Breakers  of  air,  billows  of  heat, 

Fine  summer  spray  on  inland  seas  ; 

Bird  of  the  sun,  transparent-winged 

Owlet  of  noon,  soft-pinioned, 

From  heath  or  stubble  rising  without  sonjr : 

Establish  thy  serenity  o'er  the  fields. 

The  routine  which  is  in  the  sunshine  and  the  finest 
days,  as  that  which  has  conquered  and  prevailed,  com 
mends  itself  to  us  by  its  very  antiquity  and  apparent 
solidity  and  necessity.  Our  weakness  needs  it,  and  our 
strength  uses  it.  We  cannot  draw  on  our  boots  without 
bracing  ourselves  against  it.  If  there  were  but  one 
erect  and  solid  standing  tree  in  the  woods,  all  creatures 
would  go  to  rub  against  it  and  make  sure  of  their  footing. 
During  the  many  hours  which  we  spend  in  this  waking 
sleep,  the  hand  stands  still  on  the  face  of  the  clock,  and 
we  grow  like  corn  in  the  night.  Men  are  as  busy  as  the 
brooks  or  bees,  and  postpone  everything  to  their  busi 
ness  ;  as  carpenters  discuss  politics  between  the  strokes 
of  the  hammer  while  they  are  shingling  a  roof. 

This  noontide  was  a  fit  occasion  to  make  some  pleasant 
harbor,  and  there  read  the  journal  of  some  voyageur  like 
ourselves,  not  too  moral  nor  inquisitive,  and  which  would 
not  disturb  the  noon  ;  or  else  some  old  classic,  the  very 
flower  of  all  reading,  which  we  had  postponed  to  such  a 
season 

"  Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure." 

But,  alas,  our  chest,  like  the  cabin  of  a  coaster,  contained 
only  its  well-thumbed  "Navigator"  for  all  literature, 


TUESDAY.  231 

and  we  were  obliged  to  draw  on  our  memory  for  these 
things. 

We  naturally  remembered  Alexander  Henry's  Adven 
tures  here,  as  a  sort  of  classic  among  books  of  American 
travel.  It  contains  scenery  and  rough  sketching  of  men 
and  incidents  enough  to  inspire  poets  for  many  years, 
and  to  my  fancy  is  as  full  of  sounding  names  as  any 
page  of  history, —  Lake  Winnipeg,  Hudson  Bay,  Otta- 
way,  and  portages  innumerable  ;  Chipeways,  Gens  de 
Terres,  Les  Pilleurs,  The  Weepers  ;  with  reminiscences 
of  Hearne's  journey,  and  the  like  ;  an  immense  and 
shaggy  but  sincere  country,  summer  and  winter,  adorned 
with  chains  of  lakes  and  rivers,  covered  with  snows, 
with  hemlocks,  and  fir-trees.  There  is  a  naturalness,  an 
unpretending  and  cold  life  in  this  traveller,  as  in  a 
Canadian  winter,  what  life  was  preserved  through  low 
temperatures  and  frontier  dangers  by  furs  within  a  stout 
heart.  He  has  truth  and  moderation  worthy  of  the 
father  of  history,  which  belong  only  to  an  intimate  ex 
perience,  and  he  does  not  defer  too  much  to  literature. 
The  unlearned  traveller  may  quote  his  single  line  from 
the  poets  with  as  good  right  as  the  scholar.  He  too 
may  speak  of  the  stars,  for  he  sees  them  shoot  perhaps 
when  the  astronomer  does  not.  The  good  sense  of  this 
author  is  very  conspicuous.  He  is  a  traveller  who  does 
not  exaggerate,  but  writes  for  the  information  of  his 
readers,  for  science,  and  for  history.  His  story  is  told 
with  as  much  good  faith  and  directness  as  if  it  were  a 
report  to  his  brother  traders,  or  the  Directors  of  the 
Hudson  Bay  Company,  and  is  fitly  dedicated  to  Sir  Jo 
seph  Banks.  It  reads  like  the  argument  to  a  great  poem 
on  the  primitive  state  of  the  country  and  its  inhabitants, 
and  the  reader  imagines  what  in  each  case,  with  the  in- 


232  A    WEEK. 

vocation  of  the  Muse,  might  be  sung,  and  leaves  off  with 
suspended  interest,  as  if  the  full  account  were  to  follow 
In  what  school  was  this  fur-trader  educated  ?  He  seems 
to  travel  the  immense  snowy  country  with  such  purpose 
only  as  the  reader  who  accompanies  him,  and  to  the 
latter's  imagination,  it  is,  as  it  were,  momentarily  created 
to  be  the  scene  of  his  adventures.  What  is  most  inter 
esting  and  valuable  in  it,  however,  is  not  the  materials 
for  the  history  of  Pontiac,  or  Braddock,  or  the  North 
west,  which  it  furnishes  ;  not  the  annals  of  the  country, 
but  the  natural  facts,  or  perennials,  which  are  ever  with 
out  date.  When  out  of  history  the  truth  shall  be  ex 
tracted,  it  will  have  shed  its  dates  like  withered  leaves. 

The  Souhegan,  or  Crooked  River,  as  some  translate 
it,  comes  in  from  the  west  about  a  mile  and  a  half  above 
Thornton's  Ferry.  Babboosuck  Brook  empties  into  it 
near  its  mouth.  There  are  said  to  be  some  of  the  finest 
water  privileges  in  the  country  still  unimproved  on  the 
former  stream,  at  a  short  distance  from  the  Merrimack. 
One  spring  morninjr,  March  22,  in  the  year  1677,  an  in 
cident  occurred  on  the  banks  of  the  river  here,  which  is 
interesting  to  us  as  a  slight  memorial  of  an  interview 
between  two  ancient  tribes  of  men,  one  of  which  is  now 
extinct,  while  the  other,  though  it  is  still  represented  by 
a  miserable  remnant,  has  long  since  disappeared  from 
its  ancient  hunting-grounds.  A  Mr.  James  Parker,  at 
w  Mr.  Hinchmanne's  farme  ner  Meremack,"  wrote  thus 
"to  the  Honred  Governer  and  Council  at  Bostown, 
Hast,  Post  Hast " :  — 

"  Sagamore  Wanalancet  come  this  morning  to  informe  me 
and  then  went  to  Mr.  Tyng's  to  informe  him,  that  his  son  b& 
fog  on  ye  other  sid  of  Meremack  river  over  against  Souhegar 


TUESDAY.  233 

upon  the  22  day  of  this  instant,  about  tene  of  the  clock  in 
the  morning,  he  discovered  15  Indians  on  this  sid  the  river, 
which  he  soposed  to  b^  Mohokes  by  ther  spech.  He  called 
to  them ;  they  answered  but  he  could  not  understand  ther 
spech  ;  and  he  having  a  eonow  ther  in  the  river,  he  went  to 
breck  his  conow  that  they  might  not  have  ani  ues  of  it.  In 
the  mean  time  they  shot  about  thirty  guns  at  him,  and  he 
being  much  frighted  fled,  and  come  home  forthwith  to  Na- 
hamcock  [Pawtucket  Falls  or  Lowell],  wher  ther  wigowames 
now  stand." 

Penacooks  and  Mohawks  !  ubique  gentium  sunt  ?  In 
the  year  1670,  a  Mohawk  warrior  scalped  a  Naamkeak 
or  else  a  Wamesit  Indian  maiden  near  where  Lowell 
now  stands.  She,  however,  recovered.  Even  as  late  as 
1685,  John  Hogkins,  a  Penacook  Indian,  who  describes 
his  grandfather  as  having  lived  "  at  place  called  Mala- 
make  rever,  other  name  chef  Natukkog  and  Panukkog, 
that  one  rever  great  many  names,"  wrote  thus  to  the 
governor : — 

"May  15th,  1685. 
"  Honor  governor  my  friend, — 

"  You  my  friend  I  desire  your  worship  and  your  power, 
because  I  hope  you  can  do  som  great  matters  this  one.  I  am 
poor  and  naked  and  I  have  no  men  at  my  place  because  I 
afraid  allwayes  Mohogs  he  will  kill  me  every  day  and  night. 
If  your  worship  when  please  pray  help  me  you  no  let  Mohogs 
kill  me  at  my  place  at  Malamake  river  called  Pannukkog 
and  Natukkog,  I  will  submit  your  worship  and  your  power. 
And  now  I  want  pouder  and  such  alminishon  shatt  and  guns, 
because  I  have  forth  at  my  horn  and  I  plant  theare. 

"  This  all  Indian  hand,  but  pray  you  do  consider  your 
humble  servant,  JOHN  HOGKINS." 

Signed  also  by  Simon  Detogkom,  King  Hary,  Sam  Lin  is, 
Mr.  Jorge  Rodunnonukgus,  John  Owamcsimmin,  and  nin« 
other  Indians,  with  their  ma"ks  against  their  names. 


234  A    WEEK. 

But  now,  one  hundred  and  fifty-four  years  having 
elapsed  since  the  date  of  this  letter,  we  went  unalarmed 
on  our  way  without  *' breaking"  our  u  conow,"  reading 
the  New  England  Gazetteer,  and  seeing  no  traces  of 
"  Mohogs  "  on  the  banks. 

The  Soubegan,  though  a  rapid  river,  seemed  to-day  to 
have  borrowed  its  character  from  the  noon. 

Where  gleaming  fields  of  haze 
Meet  the  voyageur's  gaze, 
And  above,  the  heated  air 
Seems  to  make  a  river  there, 
The  pines  stand  up  with  pride 
By  the  Souhegan's  side, 
And  the  hemlock  and  the  larch 
With  their  triumphal  arch 
Are  waving  o'er  its  march 

To  the  sea. 

No  wind  stirs  its  waves, 
But  the  spirits  of  the  braves 

Hov'ring  o'er, 
Whose  antiquated  graves 
Its  still  water  laves 
On  the  shore. 

With  an  Indian's  stealthy  tread 
It  goes  sleeping  in  its  bed, 

Without  joy  or  grief, 

Or  the  rustle  of  a  leaf, 

Without  a  ripple  or  a  billow, 

Or  the  sigh  of  a  willow, 

From  the  Lyndeboro1  hills 

To  the  Merrimack  mills. 

With  a  louder  din 

jUid  its  current  begin, 

When  melted  the  snow 

On  the  far  mountain's  brow. 

And  the  drops  came  together 

In  that  rainy  weathsr. 

Experienced  river, 

Ha«t  thou  flowed  forever  ? 

Souhegan  soundeth  old, 


TUKSDAY.  233 

But  the  half  is  not  told, 

What  names  hast  thou  bort.e, 

In  the  ages  far  gone, 

When  the  Xanthus  and  Meander 

Commenced  to  wander, 

Ere  the  black  bear  haunted 

Thy  red  forest-floor, 
Or  Nature  had  planted 

The  pines  by  thy  shore  ? 

During  the  heat  of  the  day,  we  rested  on  a  large 
island  a  mile  above  the  mouth  of  this  river,  pastured  by 
a  herd  of  cattle,  with  steep  banks  and  scattered  elms  and 
oaks,  and  a  sufficient  channel  for  canal-boats  on  each 
side.  When  we  made  a  fire  to  boil  some  rice  for  our 
dinner,  the  flames  spreading  amid  the  dry  grass,  and  the 
smoke  curling  silently  upward  and  casting  grotesque 
shadows  on  the  ground,  seemed  phenomena  of  the  noon, 
and  we  fancied  that  we  progressed  up  the  stream  with 
out  effort,  and  as  naturally  as  the  wind  and  tide  went 
down,  not  outraging  the  calm  days  by  unworthy  bustle 
or  impatience.  The  woods  on  the  neighboring  shore 
were  alive  with  pigeons,  which  were  moving  south,  look 
ing  for  mast,  but  now,  like  ourselves,  spending  their 
noon  in  the  shade.  We  could  hear  the  slight,  wiry,  win 
nowing  sound  of  their  wings  as  they  changed  their  roosts 
from  time  to  time,  and  their  gentle  and  tremulous  cooing. 
They  sojourned  with  us  during  the  noontide,  greater 
travellers  far  than  we.  You  may  frequently  discover  a 
single  pair  sitting  upon  the  lower  branches  of  the  white- 
pine  in  the  depths  of  the  wood,  at  this  hour  of  the  day, 
BO  silent  and  solitary,  ai.d  with  such  a  hermit-like  ap 
pearance,  as  if  they  had  never  strayed  beyond  its  skirts, 
while  the  icorn  which  was  gathered  In  the  forests  of 
Maine  is  still  undigested  in  their  crops.  We  obtained 


236  A    WEEK. 

one  of  the:se  handsome  birds,  which  lingered  too  long 
upon  its  perch,  and  plucked  and  broiled  it  here  with 
some  other  game,  to  be  carried  along  for  our  supper , 
for,  beside  the  provisions  which  we  carried  with  us,  we 
depended  mainly  on  the  river  and  forest  for  our  supply. 
It  is  true,  it  did  not  seem  to  be  putting  this  bird  to  its 
right  use  to  pluck  off  its  feathers,  and  extract  its  entrails, 
and  broil  its  carcass  on  the  coals  ;  but  we  heroically  per 
severed,  nevertheless,  waiting  for  further  information. 
The  same  regard  for  Nature  which  excited  our  sympa 
thy  for  her  creatures  nerved  our  hands  to  carry  through 
what  we  had  begun.  For  we  would  be  honorable  to 
the  party  we  deserted  ;  we  would  fulfil  fate,  and  so  at 
length,  perhaps,  detect  the  secret  innocence  of  these 
incessant  tragedies  which  Heaven  allows. 

"Too quick  resolves  do  resolution  wrong, 
What,  part  so  soon  to  be  divorced  so  long? 
Things  to  be  done  are  long  to  be  debated; 
Heaven  is  not  day'd,  Repentance  is  not  dated." 

We  are  double-edged  blades,  and  every  time  we  whet 
our  virtue  the  return  stroke  straps  our  vice.  Where  is 
the  skilful  swordsman  who  can  give  clean  wounds,  and 
not  rip  up  his  work  with  the  other  edge  ? 

Nature  herself  has  not  provided  the  most  graceful 
end  for  her  creatures.  What  becomes  of  all  these  birds 
that  people  the  air  and  forest  for  our  solacement  ?  The 
sparrows  seem  always  chipper,  never  infirm.  We  do 
not  see  their  bodies  lie  about.  Yet  there  is  a  tragedy  at 
the  end  of  each  one  of  their  lives.  They  must  perish 
miserably  ;  not  one  of  them  is  translated.  True,  '"  not  a 
sparrow  falleth  to  the  ground  without  our  Heavenlt 
Father's  knowledge,"  but  they  do  fall,  nevertheless. 


TUESDAY.  237 

The  carcasses  of  some  poor  squirrels,  however,  the 
eame  that  frisked  so  merrily  in  the  morning,  which  we 
had  skinned  and  embowelled  for  our  dinner,  we  aban 
doned  in  disgust,  with  tardy  humanity,  as  too  wretched  a 
resource  for  any  but  starving  men.  It  was  to  perpetuate 
the  practice  of  a  barbarous  era.  If  they  had  been  larger, 
our  crime  had  been  less.  Their  small  red  bodies,  little 
bundles  of  red  tissue,  mere  gobbets  of  venison,  would 
not  have  "  fattened  fire."  With  a  sudden  impulse  we 
threw  them  away,  and  washed  our  hands,  and  boiled 
some  rice  for  our  dinner.  "  Behold  the  difference  be 
tween  the  one  who  eateth  flesh,  and  him  to  whom  it 
belonged  !  The  first  hath  a  momentary  enjoyment,  whilst 
the  latter  is  deprived  of  existence  !  "  "  Who  would  com 
mit  so  great  a  crime  against  a  poor  animal,  who  is  fed 
only  by  the  herbs  which  grow  wild  in  the  woods,  and 
whose  belly  is  burnt  up  with  hunger  ?  "  We  remem 
bered  a  picture  of  mankind  in  the  hunter  age,  chasing 
hares  down  the  mountains  ;  0  me  miserable  !  Yet  sheep 
and  oxen  are  but  larger  squirrels,  whose  hides  are  save^ 
and  meat  is  salted,  whose  souls  perchance  are  not  so 
large  in  proportion  to  their  bodies. 

There  should  always  be  some  flowering  and  maturing 
of  the  fruits  of  nature  in  the  cooking  process.  Some 
simple  dishes  recommend  themselves  to  our  imaginations 
as  well  as  palates.  In  parched  corn,  for  instance,  there  is 
a  manifest  sympathy  between  the  bursting  seed  and  the 
more  perfect  developments  of  vegetable  life.  It  is  a  per 
fect  flower  with  its  petals,  like  the  houstonia  or  anemone. 
On  my  warm  hearth  these  cerealian  blossoms  expanded ; 
here  is  the  bank  whereon  they  grew.  Perhaps  some 
such  visible  blessing  would  always  attend  the  simple  and 
wholesome  repast. 


238  A    WEEK. 

Here  was  that  *'  pleasant  harbor "  which  we  had 
sighed  for,  where  the  weary  voyageur  could  read  the 
journal  of  some  other  sailor,  whose  bark  had  ploughed, 
perchance,  more  famous  and  classic  seas.  At  the  tables 
of  the  gods,  after  feasting  follow  music  and  song ;  we 
will  recline  now  under  these  island  trees,  and  for  our 
minstrel  call  on 

ANACREON. 

"  Nor  has  he  ceased  his  charming  song,  for  still  that  lyre, 
Though  he  is  dead,  sleeps  not  in  Hades." 

Simonides'  Ejrigram  on  Anacreon. 

I  lately  met  with  an  old  volume  from  a  London  book 
shop,  containing  the  Greek  Minor  Poets,  and  it  was  a 
pleasure  to  read  once  more  only  the  words,  Orpheus, 
Linus,  Musaeus,  —  those  faint  poetic  sounds  and  echoes 
of  a  name,  dying  away  on  the  ears  of  us  modern 
men  ;  and  those  hardly  more  substantial  sounds,  Mini- 
nermus,  Ibycus,  Alcseus,  Stesichorus,  Menander.  They 
Jived  not  in  vain.  We  can  converse  with  thes.e  bodi 
less  fames  without  reserve  or  personality. 

I  know  of  no  studies  so  composing  as  those  of  the  clas 
sical  scholar.  When  we  have  sat  down  to  them,  life 
seems  as  still  and  serene  as  if  it  were  very  far  off,  and  I 
believe  it  is  not  habitually  seen  from  any  common  plat 
form  so  truly  and  unexaggerated  as  in  the  light  of  liter 
ature.  In  serene  hours  we  contemplate  the  tour  of  the 
Greek  and  Latin  authors  with  more  pleasure  than  the 
traveller  does  the  fairest  scenery  of  Greece  or  Italy 
Where  shall  we  find  a  more  refined  society  ?  That  high 
way  down  from  Homer  and  Hesiod  to  Horace  and  Ju 
venal  is  more  attractive  than  the  Appian.  Reading  the 
classics,  or  conversing  with  those  old  Greeks  and  Latins 


TUESDAY.  239 

in  their  surviving  works,  is  like  walking  amid  the  stars 
and  constellations,  a  high  and  by  way  serene  to  travel. 
Indeed,  the  true  scholar  will  be  not  a  little  of  an  astrono 
mer  in  his  habits.  Distracting  cares  will  not  be  allowed 
to  obstruct  the  field  of  his  vision,  for  the  higher  regions 
of  literature,  like  astronomy,  are  above  storm  and  dark 
ness. 

But  passing  by  these  rumors  of  bards,  let  us  pause  foi 
a  moment  at  the  Teian  poet. 

There  is  something  strangely  modern  about  him.  He 
is  very  easily  turned  into  English.  Is  it  that  our  lyric 
poets  have  resounded  but  that  lyre,  which  would  sound 
only  light  subjects,  and  which  Simonides  tells  us  does 
not  sleep  in  Hades  ?  His  odes  are  like  gems  of  pure 
ivory.  They  possess  an  ethereal  and  evanescent  beauty 
like  summer  evenings,  o  xph  °"f  VOf~lv  v°°v  avfat,  —  which 
you  must  perceive  with  the  flower  of  the  mind,  —  and  show 
how  slight  a  beauty  could  be  expressed.  You  have  to 
consider  them,  as  the  stars  of  lesser  magnitude,  with  the 
side  of  the  eye,  and  look  aside  from  them  to  behold 
tnem.  They  charm  us  by  their  serenity  and  freedom 
from  exaggeration  and  passion,  and  by  a  certain  flower- 
like  beauty,  which  does  not  propose  itself,  but  must  be 
approached  and  studied  like  a  natural  object.  But  per 
haps  their  chief  merit  consists  in  the  lightness  and  yet 
security  of  their  tread  ; 

"  The  young  and  tender  stalk 
Ne'er  bends  when  they  do  walk." 

True,  our  nerves  are  never  strung  by  them ;  it  is 
too  constantly  the  sound  of  the  lyre,  and  never  the  note 
of  the  trumpet ;  but  they  are  not  gross,  as  has  been  pre 
sumed,  but  always  elevated  above  the  sensual. 

These  are  some  of  the  best  that  have  come  down  to  ua» 


240  A    WEEK. 

ON  HIS  LYRE. 

I  wish  to  sing  the  Atridae, 
And  Cadmus  I  wish  to  sing; 
But  my  lyre  sounds 
Only  love  with  its  chords. 
Lately  I  changed  the  strings 
And  all  the  lyre ; 
And  I  began  to  sing  the  labor* 
Of  Hercules;  but  my  lyre 
Resounded  loves. 
Farewell,  henceforth,  for  me, 
Heroes !  for  my  lyre 
Sings  only  loves. 

TO  A  SWALLOW. 

Thou  indeed,  dear  swallow, 
Yearly  going  and  coming, 
In  summer  weavest  thy  nest, 
And  in  winter  go'st  disappearing 
Either  to  Nile  or  to  Memphis. 
But  Love  always  weaveth 
His  nest  in  my  heart 

ON  A  SILVER  CUP. 

Turning  the  silver, 

Vulcan,  make  for  me, 

Not  indeed  a  panoply, 

For  what  are  battles  to  me? 

But  a  hollow  cup, 

As  deep  as  thou  canst. 

And  make  for  me  in  it 

Neither  stars,  nor  wagons, 

Nor  sad  Orion; 

What  are  the  Pleiades  to  me? 

What  the  shining  Bootes? 

Make  vines  for  me, 

And  clusters  of  grapes  in  it, 

And  of  gold  Love  and  Bathylh* 

Treading  the  grapes 

With  the  fair  Lyaeus. 


TUESDAY.  241 

ON  HIMSELF. 

Thou  sing'st  the  affairs  of  Thebce, 

And  he  the  battles  of  Troy, 

But  I  of  ray  own  defeats. 

No  horse  have  wasted  me, 

Nor  foot,  nor  ships; 

But  a  new  and  different  boat, 

From  eyes  smiting  me. 


TO  A  DOVE. 

Lovely  dove, 

Whence,  whence  dost  thou  fly? 

Whence,  running  on  air, 

Dost  thou  waft  and  diffuse 

So  many  sweet  ointments? 

Who  art  ?    What  thy  errand  ?  — 

Anacreon  sent  me 

To  a  boy,  to  Bathyllus, 

Who  lately  is  ruler  and  tyrant  of  i 

Cythere  has  sold  me 

For  one  little  song, 

And  I  'in  doing  this  service 

For  Anacreon. 

And  now,  as  you  see, 

I  bear  letters  from  him. 

And  he  says  that  directly 

He  '11  make  me  free, 

But  though  he  release  me, 

His  slave  I  will  tarry  with  him. 

For  why  should  I  fly 

Over  mountains  and  fields, 

And  perch  upon  trees, 

Eating  some  wild  thing? 

Now  indeed  I  eat  bread, 

Plucking  it  from  the  handf 

Of  Anacreon  himself; 

And  he  gives  me  to  drink 

The  wine  which  he  tastes 

And  drinking,  I  dance, 

And  shadow  my  master's 

11 


|42  A    WEEK. 


Face  with  my  wings; 

And,  going  to  rest, 

On  the  lyre  itself  I  sleep. 

That  is  all ;  get  thee  gone. 

Thou  hast  made  me  more  talkatire, 

Man,  than  a  crow. 


ON  LOVE. 

Love  walking  swiftly, 

With  hyacinthine  staff, 

Bade  me  to  take  a  run  with  him; 

And  hastening  through  swift  torrents, 

And  woody  places,  and  over  precipice*, 

A  water-snake  stung  me. 

And  my  heart  leaped  up  to 

My  mouth,  and  I  should  have  fainted; 

But  Love  fanning  my  brows 

With  his  soft  wings,  said, 

Surely,  thou  art  not  able  to  love. 


ON  WOMEN. 

Nature  has  given  horns 

To  bulls,  and  hoofs  to  horses, 

Swiftness  to  hares, 

To  lions  yawning  teeth, 

To  fishes  swimming, 

To  birds  flight, 

To  men,  wisdom. 

For  woman  she  had  nothing  beside; 

What  th.en  does  she  give?    Beauty,  - 

Instead  of  all  shields, 

Instead  of  all  spears; 

And  she  conquers  even  iron 

And  fire,  who  is  beautiful. 


ON  LOVERS. 

Horses  have  the  mark 
Of  fire  on  their  »ide», 


TUESDAY.  243 

And  some  have  distinguished 

The  Parthian  men  by  their  crests; 

So  I,  seeing  lovers, 

Know  them  at  once, 

For  they  have  a  certain  slight 

Brand  on  their  hearts. 


TO  A  SWALLOW. 

What  dost  thou  wish  me  to  do  to  thee, 

What,  thou  loquacious  swallow? 

Dost  thou  wish  me  taking  thee 

Thy  light  pinions  to  clip? 

Or  rather  to  pluck  out 

Thy  tongue  from  within, 

As  that  Tereus  did  ? 

Why  with  thy  notes  in  the  dawn 

Hast  thou  plundered  Bathyllus 

From  my  beautiful  dreams? 


TO  A  COLT. 

Thracian  colt,  why  at  me 
Looking  aslant  with  thy  eyes, 
Dost  thou  cruelly  flee, 
And  think  that  I  know  nothing  wise? 
Know  I  could  well 
Put  the  bridle  on  thee, 
And  holding  the  reins,  turn 
Bound  the  bounds  of  the  course. 
But  now  thou  browsest  the  meads, 
And  gambolling  lightly  dost  play, 
For  thou  hast  no  skilful  horseman 
Mounted  upon  thy  oack. 


CUPID  WOUNDED. 

Love  once  among  roses 

Saw  not 

A  sleeping  bee,  but  was  stung; 

And  being  wotaded  in  the  finger 


A    WEEK. 

Of  his  hand,  cried  for  pain. 

Running  as  well  as  flying 

To  the  beautiful  Venus, 

I  am  killed,  mother,  said  he, 

I  am  killed,  and  I  die. 

A  little  serpent  1ms  stung  me, 

Winged,  which  they  call 

A  bee,  —  the  husbandmen. 

And  she  said,  If  the  sting 

Of  a  bee  afflicts  you, 

How,  think  you,  are  they  afflicted, 

Love,  whom  you  smite? 


Late  in  the  afternoon,  for  we  had  lingered  long  on  the 
island,  we  raised  our  sail  for  the  first  time,  and  for  a 
short  hour  the  southwest  wind  was  our  ally ;  but  it  did 
not  please  Heaven  to  abet  us  along.  With  one  sail 
raised  we  swept  slowly  up  the  eastern  side  of  the  stream, 
steering  clear  of  the  rocks,  while,  from  the  top  of  a  hill 
which  formed  the  opposite  bank,  some  lumberers  were 
rolling  down  timber  to  be  rafted  down  the  stream.  We 
could  see  their  axes  and  levers  gleaming  in  the  sun,  and 
the  logs  carne  down  with  a  dust  and  a  rumbling  sound, 
which  was  reverberated  through  the  woods  beyond  us  on 
uur  side,  like  the  roar  of  artillery.  But  Zephyr  soon 
took  us  out  of  sight  and  hearing  of  this  commerce.  Hav 
ing  passed  Read's  Ferry,  and  another  island  called  Mc- 
Gaw's  Island,  we  reached  some  rapids  called  Moore's 
Falls,  and  entered  on  "that  section  of  the  river,  nine 
miles  in  extent,  converted,  by  law,  into  the  Union  Canal, 
comprehending  in  that  space  six  distinct  falls ;  at  each 
of  which,  and  at  several  intermediate  places,  work  hai 
been  done."  After  passing  Moore's  Falls  by  means  of 
locks,  we  again  had  recourse  to  our  oars,  and  went  mer 


TUESDAY. 


245 


rily  on  our  way,  driving  the  small  sandpiper  from  rock 
to  rock  before  us,  and  sometimes  rowing  near  enough  to 
a  cottage  on  the  bank,  though  they  were  few  and  far  be 
tween,  to  see  the  sunflowers,  and  the  seed  vessels  of  the 
poppy,  like  small  goblets  filled  with  the  water  of  Lethe, 
before  the  door,  but  without  disturbing  the  sluggish 
household  behind.  Thus  we  held  on,  sailing  or  dipping 
our  way  along  with  the  paddle  up  this  broad  river, 
smooth  and  placid,  flowing  over  concealed  rocks,  where 
we  could  see  the  pickerel  lying  low  in  the  transparent 
water,  eager  to  double  some  distant  cape,  to  make  some 
great  bend  as  in  the  life  of  man,  and  see  what  new  per 
spective  would  open  ;  looking  far  into  a  new  country, 
broad  and  serene,  the  cottages  of  settlers  seen  afar  for 
the  first  time,  yet  with  the  moss  of  a  century  on  their 
roofs,  and  the  third  or  fourth  generation  in  their  shadows. 
Strange  was  it  to  consider  how  the  sun  and  the  summer, 
the  buds  of  spring  and  the  seared  leaves  of  autumn, 
were  related  to  these  cabins  along  the  shore ;  how  all  the 
rays  which  paint  the  landscape  radiate  from  them,  and 
the  flight  of  the  crow  and  the  gyrations  of  the  hawk 
have  reference  to  their  roofs.  Still  the  ever  rich  and 
fertile  shores  accompanied  us,  fringed  with  vines  and 
alive  with  small  birds  and  frisking  squirrels,  the  edge  of 
tome  farmer's  field  or  widow's  wood-lot,  or  wilder,  per 
chance,  where  the  rnuskrat,  the  little  medicine  of  the 
river,  drags  itself  alocg  stealthily  over  the  alder-leaves 
and  muscle-shells,  and  man  and  the  memory  of  man  are 
banished  far. 

At  length  the  unwearied,  never-sinking  shore,  still 
folding  on  without  break,  wi.h  its  cool  copses  and  serene 
pasture-grounds.,  temp'.od  us  to  disembark  ;  and  we  ad 
venturously  landed  on  this  remote  coast,  to  survey  it. 


246  A     WEKK. 

without  the  knowledge  of  any  human  inhabitant  probably 
to  this  day.  But  we  still  remember  the  gnarled  and 
hospitable  oaks  which  grew  even  there  for  our  entertain 
ment,  and  were  no  strangers  to  ns,  the  lonely  horse  in 
his  pasture,  and  the  patient  cows,  whose  path  to  the 
river,  so  judiciously  chosen  to  overcome  the  difficulties 
of  the  way,  we  followed,  and  disturbed  their  ruminations 
in  the  shade ;  and,  above  all,  the  cool,  free  aspect  of  the 
wild  apple-trees,  generously  proffering  their  fruit  to  us, 
though  still  green  and  crude,  —  the  hard,  round,  glossy 
fruit,  which,  if  not  ripe,  still  was  not  poison,  but  New- 
English  too,  brought  hither  its  ancestors  by  ours  once. 
These  gentler  trees  imparted  a  half-civilized  and  twi 
light  aspect  to  the  otherwise  barbarian  land.  Still  far 
ther  on  we  scrambled  up  the  rocky  channel  of  a  brook, 
which  had  long  served  nature  for  a  ^luice  there,  leaping 
like  it  from  rock  to  rock  through  tangled  woods,  at  the 
bottom  of  a  ravine,  which  grew  darker  and  darker,  and 
more  and  more  hoarse  the  murmurs  of  the  stream,  until 
we  reached  the  ruins  of  a  mill,  where  now  the  ivy  grew, 
and  the  trout  glanced  through  the  crumbling  flume  ;  am1 
there  we  imagined  what  had  been  the  dreams  and  spec- 
ilatior.s  of  some  early  settler.  But  the  waning  day 
compelled  us  to  embark  once  more,  and  redeem  this 
wasted  time  with  long  and  vigorous  sweeps  over  the 
rippling  stream. 

It  was  still  wild  and  solitary,  except  that  at  intervals 
of  a  mile  or  two  the  roof  of  a  cottage  might  be  seen  over 
the  bank.  This  region,  as  we  read,  was  once  famous  for 
the  manufacture  of  straw  bonnets  of  the  Leghorn  kind, 
of  which  it  claims  the  invention  in  these  parts  ;  and  oc 
casionally  some  industrious  damsel  tripped  down  to  the 
water's  edge,  to  put  her  straw  a-soak,  as  it  appeared,  and 


TUESDAY.  247 

itood  awhile  to  watch  the  retreating  voyageurs,  and 
catch  the  fragment  of  a  boat-song  which  we  had  made, 
wafted  over  the  water. 

Thus,  perchance,  the  Indian  hunter, 

Many  a  lagging  jrear  agone, 
Gliding  o'er  thy  rippling  waters, 

Lowly  hummed  a  natural  song. 

Now  the  sun  's  behind  the  willows, 

Now  he  gleams  along  the  waves, 
Faintly  o'er  the  wearied  billows 

Come  the  spirits  of  the  braves. 

Just  before  sundown  we  reached  some  more  falls  in 
the  town  of  Bedford,  where  some  stone-masons  were  em 
ployed  repairing  the  locks  in  a  solitary  part  of  the  river. 
They  were  interested  in  our  adventure,  especially  one 
young  man  of  our  own  age,  who  inquired  at  first  if  we 
were  bound  up  to  "  'Skeag " ;  and  when  he  had  heard 
our  story,  and  examined  our  outfit,  asked  us  other  ques 
tions,  but  temperately  still,  and  always  turning  to  his 
work  again,  though  as  if  it  were  become  his  duty.  It 
was  plain  that  he  would  like  to  go  with  us,  and,  as  he 
looked  up  the  river,  many  a  distant  cape  and  wooded 
shore  were  reflected  in  his  eye,  as  well  as  in  his 
thoughts.  When  we  were  ready  he  left  his  work,  and 
aelped  us  through  the  locks  with  a  sort  of  quiet  enthu 
siasm,  telling  us  that  we  were  at  Coos  Falls,  and  we  could 
still  distinguish  the  strokes  of  his  chisel  for  many  sweeps 
after  we  had  left  him. 

We  wished  to  camp  this  night  on  a  large  rock  in  the 
middle  of  the  stream,  just  above  these  falls,  but  the 
want  of  fuel,  and  the  difficulty  of  fixing  our  tent  firmly, 
prevented  us  ;  so  we  made  our  bed  on  the  main-land 
opposite,  on  the  west  bank,  in  the  town  of  Bedford,  in  a 
retired  place,  as  we  supposed,  there  being  no  house 
in  sight. 


WEDNESDAY 


<*  Man  is  num'i  foe  and  destiny." 

Comae 


WEDNESDAY. 


EARLY  this  morning,  as  we  were  rolling  up  our  buffa 
loes  and  loading  our  boat  amid  the  dew,  while  our  em 
bers  were  still  smoking,  the  masons  who  worked  at  the 
locks,  and  whom  we  had  seen  crossing  the  river  in  their 
boat  the  evening  before  while  we  were  examining  the 
rock,  came  upon  us  as  they  were  going  to  their  work,  and 
we  found  that  we  had  pitched  our  tent  directly  in  the 
path  to  their  boat.  This  was  the  only  time  that  we  were 
observed  on  our  camping-ground.  Thus,  far  from  the 
beaten  highways  and  the  dust  and  din  of  travel,  we  be 
held  the  country  privately,  yet  freely,  and  at  our  leisure. 
Other  roads  do  some  violence  to  Nature,  and  bring  the 
traveller  to  stare  at  her,  but  the  river  steals  into  the 
scenery  it  traverses  without  intrusion,  silently  creating 
and  adorning  it,  and  is  as  free  to  come  and  go  as  the 
zephyr. 

As  we  shoved  away  from  this  rocky  coast,  before  sun 
rise,  the  smaller  bittern,  the  genius  of  the  shore,  was 
moping  along  its  edge,  or  stood  probing  the  mud  for  its 
food,  with  ever  an  eye  on  us,  though  so  demurely  at 
work,  or  else  he  ran  along  over  the  wet  stones  like  a 
wrecker  in  his  storm-ooat,  looking  out  for  wrecks  of 
snails  and  cockles.  Now  away  he  goes,  with  a  limping 
Might,  uncertain  where  he  will  alight,  until  a  rod  of  clear 
sand  amid  the  alders  mrites  his  feet;  and  now  our 


t')*l  A    WEEK. 

steady  approach  compels  him  to  seek  a  new  retreat.  It 
is  a  bird  of  the  oldest  Thalesian  school,  and  no  doubt 
believes  in  the  priority  of  water  to  the  other  elements ; 
the  relic  of  a  twilight  antediluvian  age  which  yet  in 
habits  these  bright  American  rivers  with  us  Yankees 
There  is  something  venerable  in  this  melancholy  and 
contemplative  race  of  birds,  which  may  have  trodden 
the  earth  while  it  was  yet  in  a  slimy  and  imperfect  state. 
Perchance  their  tracks  too  are  still  visible  on  the  stones. 
It  still  lingers  into  our  glaring  summers,  bravely  sup 
porting  its  fate  without  sympathy  from  man,  as  if  it 
looked  forward  to  some  second  advent  of  which  he  haf 
no  assurance.  One  wonders  if,  by  its  patient  study  by 
rocks  and  sandy  capes,  it  has  wrested  the  whole  of  her 
secret  from  Nature  yet.  What  a  rich  experience  it 
must  have  gained,  standing  on  one  leg  and  looking  out 
from  its  dull  eye  so  long  on  sunshine  and  rain,  moon 
and  stars !  What  could  it  tell  of  stagnant  pools  and 
reeds  and  dank  night-fogs !  It  would  be  worth  the 
while  to  look  closely  into  the  eye  which  has  been  open 
and  seeing  at  such  hours,  and  in  such  solitudes,  its  dull, 
yellowish,  greenish  eye.  Methinks  my  own  soul  must 
be  a  bright  invisible  green.  I  have  seen  these  birds 
stand  by  the  half-dozen  together  in  the  shallower  water 
along  the  shore,  with  their  bills  thrust  into  the  mud  at 
the  bottom,  probing  for  food,  the  whole  head  being  con 
cealed,  while  the  neck  and  body  formed  an  arch  above 
the  water. 

Cohass  Brook,  the  outlet  of  Massabesic  Pond, — 
which  last  is  five  or  six  miles  distant,  and  contains  fif 
teen  hundred  acres,  being  the  largest  body  of  fresh 
water  in  Rockingham  Cour^y,  —  comes  in  near  here 
from  the  east.  Rowing  between  Manchester  and  Bed- 


WEDNESDAY.  253 

ford,  we  passed,  at  an  early  hour,  a  ferry  and  some  falls, 
called  GofTs  Falls,  the  Indian  Cohasset,  where  there  is 
a  small  village,  arid  a  handsome  green  islet  in  the  mid 
die  of  the  stream.  From  Bedford  and  Merrimack  have 
been  boated  the  bricks  of  which  Lowell  is  made. 
About  twenty  years  before,  as  they  told  us,  one  Moore, 
of  Bedford,  having  clay  on  his  farm,  contracted  to  fur- 
aish  eight  millions  of  bricks  to  the  founders  of  that  city 
within  two  years.  He  fulfilled  his  contract  in  one  year, 
and  since  then  bricks  have  been  the  principal  export 
from  these  towns.  The  farmers  found  thus  a  market  for 
their  wood,  and  when  they  had  brought  a  load  to  the 
kilns,  they  could  cart  a  load  of  bricks  to  the  shore,  and 
so  make  a  profitable  day's  work  of  it.  Thus  all  parties 
were  benefited.  It  was  worth  the  while  to  see  the 
place  where  Lowell  was  "  dug  out."  So  likewise  Man 
chester  is  being  built  of  bricks  made  still  higher  up  the 
river  at  Hooksett. 

There  might  be  seen  here  on  the  bank  of  the  Merri 
mack,  near  GofPs  Falls,  in  what  is  now  the  town  of  Bed 
ford,  famous  "  for  hops  and  for  its  fine  domestic  manu 
factures,"  some  graves  of  the  aborigines.  The  land  still 
bears  this  scar  here,  and  time  is  slowly  crumbling  the 
bones  of  a  race.  Yet,  without  fail,  every  spring,  since 
they  first  fished  and  hunted  here,  the  brown  thrasher 
has  heralded  the  morning  from  a  birch  or  alder  spray, 
and  the  undying  race  of  reed-birds  still  rustles  through 
the  withering  grass.  But  these  bones  rustle  not.  These 
mouldering  elements  are  slowly  preparing  for  another 
metamorphosis,  to  serve  new  masters,  and  what  was  the 
Indian's  will  erelong  be  the  white  man's  sinew. 

We  learned  that  Bedford  was  not  so  famous  for  hops 
&q  formerly,  since  the  price  is  fluctuating,  ar  d  poles  are 


254  A    WEEK. 

now  scarce.  Yet  if  the  traveller  goes  back  a  few  miles 
from  the  river,  the  hop-kilns  will  still  excite  his  2uri- 
osity. 

There  were  few  incidents  in  our  voyage  this  forenoon, 
though  the  river  was  now  more  rocky  and  the  falls  more 
frequent  than  before.  It  was  a  pleasant  change,  after 
rowing  incessantly  for  many  hours,  to  lock  ourselves 
through  in  some  retired  place,  —  for  commonly  there 
was  no  lock-man  at  hand,  —  one  sitting  in  the  boat, 
while  the  other,  sometimes  with  no  little  labor  and 
heave-yo-ing,  opened  and  shut  the  gates,  waiting  patient 
ly  to  see  the  locks  fill.  We  did  not  once  usetthe  wheels 
which  we  had  provided.  Taking  advantage  of  the 
eddy,  we  were  sometimes  floated  up  to  the  locks  almost 
in  the  face  of  the  falls ;  and,  by  the  same  cause,  any 
floating  timber  was  carried  round  in  a  circle  and  repeat 
edly  drawn  into  the  rapids  before  it  finally  went  down 
the  stream.  These  old  gray  structures,  with  their  quiet 
arms  stretched  over  the  river  in  the  sun,  appeared  like 
natural  objects  in  the  scenery,  and  the  kingfisher  an^ 
sandpiper  alighted  on  them  as  readily  as  on  stakes  or 
rocks. 

We  rowed  leisurely  up  the  stream  for  several  hours, 
until  the  sun  had  got  high  in  the  sky,  our  thoughts  mo 
notonously  beating  time  to  our  oars.  For  outward  va 
riety  there  was  only  the  river  and  the  receding  shores,  a 
rista  continually  opening  behind  and  closing  before  us, 
as  we  sat  with  our  backs  up-stream ;  and,  for  inward,  such 
thoughts  as  the  muses  grudgingly  lent  us.  We  were 
always  passing  some  low,  inviting  shore,  or  some  over 
banging  bank,  on  which,  however,  we  never  landed. 

Such  uear  aspects  had  we 
Of  our  life's  scenery. 


WEDNESDAY.  255 

It  might  be  seen  by  what  tenure  men  held  the  earth. 
The  smallest  stream  is  mediterranean  sea,  a  smaller 
ocean  creek  within  the  land,  where  men  may  steer  by 
their  farm-bounds  and  cottage-lights.  For  my  own  part, 
but  for  the  geographers,  I  should  hardly  have  known 
how  large  a  portion  of  our  globe  is  water,  my  life  has 
chiefly  passed  within  so  deep  a  cove.  Yet  I  have  some 
times  ventured  as  far  as  to  the  mouth  of  my  Snug  Har 
bor.  From  an  old  ruined  fort  on  Staten  Island,  I  have 
loved  to  watch  all  day  some  vessel  whose  name  I  had 
read  in  the  morning  through  the  telegraph-glass,  when 
she  first  came  upon  the  coast,  and  her  hull  heaved  up 
and  glistened  in  the  sun,  from  the  moment  when  the 
pilot  and  most  adventurous  news-boats  met  her,  past  the 
Hook,  and  up  the  narrow  channel  of  the  wide  outer  bay, 
till  she  was  boarded  by  the  health-officer,  and  took  her 
station  at  Quarantine,  or  held  on  her  unquestioned 
course  to  the  wharves  of  New  York.  It  was  interest 
ing,  too,  to  watch  the  less  adventurous  newsman,  who 
made  his  assault  as  the  vessel  swept  through  the  Nar 
rows,  defying  plague  and  quarantine  law,  and,  fastening 
his  little  cockboat  to  her  huge  side,  clambered  up  and 
disappeared  in  the  cabin.  And  then  I  could  imagine 
what  momentous  news  was  being  imparted  by  the  cap 
tain,  which  no  American  ear  had  ever  heard,  that  Asia, 
Africa,  Europe  —  were  all  sunk ;  for  which  at  length 
be  pays  the  price,  and  is  seen  descending  the  ship's  side 
with  his  bundle  of  newspapers,  but  not  where  he  first 
got  up,  for  these  arrivers  do  not  stand  still  to  gossip ; 
and  he  hastes  away  with  steady  sweeps  to  dispose  of  his 
wares  to  the  highest  bidder,  and  we  shall  erelong  read 
something  startling,  —  "  By  the  latest  arrival,"  —  "  by 
the  good  ship ."  On  Sunday  I  beheld,  from  some 


256  A    WEEK. 

interior  hill,  the  long  procession  of  vessels  getting  to  sea, 
reaching  from  the  city  wharves  through  the  Narrows, 
and  past  the  Hook,  quite  to  the  ocean  stream,  far  as  the 
eye  could  reach,  with  stately  march  and  silken  sails,  all 
counting  on  lucky  voyages,  but  each  time  some  of  the 
number,  no  doubt,  destined  to  go  to  Davy's  locker,  and 
never  come  on  this  coast  again.  And,  again,  in  the 
evening  of  a  pleasant  day,  it  was  my  amusement  to 
count  the  sails  in  sight.  But  as  the  setting  sun  continu 
ally  brought  more  and  more  to  light,  still  farther  in  the 
horizon,  the  last  count  always  had  the  advantage,  till,  by 
the  time  the  last  rays  streamed  over  the  sea,  I  had 
doubled  and  trebled  my  first  number;  though  I  could 
no  longer  class  them  all  under  the  several  heads  of 
ships,  barks,  brigs,  schooners,  and  sloops,  but  most 
were  faint  generic  vessels  only.  And  then  the  temper 
ate  twilight  light,  perchance,  revealed  the  floating  home 
of  some  sailor  whose  thoughts  were  already  alienated 
from  this  American  coast,  and  directed  towards  the  Eu 
rope  of  our  dreams.  I  have  stood  upon  the  same  hill 
top  when  a  thunder-shower,  rolling  down  from  the  Cats- 
kills  and  Highlands,  passed  over  the  island,  deluging  the 
land ;  and,  when  it  had  suddenly  left  us  in  sunshine,  have 
seen  it  overtake  successively,  with  its  huge  shadow  and 
dark,  descending  wall  of  rain,  the  vessels  in  the  bay. 
Their  bright  sails  were  suddenly  drooping  and  dark,  like 
the  sides  of  barns,  and  they  seemed  to  shrink  before  the 
gtorm ;  while  still  far  beyond  them  on  the  sea,  through 
this  dark  veil,  gleamed  the  sunny  sails  of  those  vessels 
which  the  storm  had  not  yet  reached.  And  at  mid 
night,  when  all  around  and  overhead  was  darkness,  I 
have  seen  a  field  of  trembling,  silvery  light  far  out  on 
the  sea,  the  reflection  of  the  moonlight  from  the  ocean, 


WEDNESDAY.  / 

as  if  beyond  the  precincts  of  our  night,  where  the  moon 
traversed  a  cloudless  heaven,  —  and  sometimes  a  dark 
speck  in  its  midst,  where  some  fortunate  vessel  was  pur 
suing  its  happy  voyage  by  night. 

But  to  us  river  sailors  the  sun  never  rose  out  of  ocean 
waves,  but  from  some  green  coppice,  and  went  down 
behind  some  dark  mountain  line.  We,  too,  were  but 
dwellers  on  the  shore,  like  the  bittern  of  the  morning ; 
and  our  pursuit,  the  wrecks  of  snails  and  cockles.  Nev 
ertheless,  we  were  contented  to  know  the  better  one  fair 
particular  shore. 

My  life  is  like  a  stroll  upon  the  beach, 

As  near  the  ocean's  edge  as  I  can  go, 
My  tardy  steps  its  waves  sometimes  o'erreach, 

Sometimes  I  stay  to  let  them  overflow. 

My  sole  employment 't  is,  and  scrupulous  care, 
To  place  my  gains  beyond  the  reach  of  tides, 

Each  smoother  pebble,  and  each  shell  more  rare, 
Which  ocean  kindly  to  my  hand  confides. 

I  have  but  few  companions  on  the  shore, 

Thev  scorn  the  strand  who  sail  upon  the  sea, 

Yet  oft  I  think  the  ocean  they  've  sailed  o'er 
Is  deeper  known  upon  the  strand  to  me. 

The  middle  sea  contains  no  crimson  dulse, 
Its  deeper  waves  cast  up  no  pearls  to  view, 

Along  the  shore  my  hand  is  on  its  pulse, 

And  I  converse  with  many  a  shipwrecked  crew. 

The  small  houses  which  were  scattered  along  the 
river  at  intervals  of  a  mile  or  more  were  commonly  out 
of  sight  to  us,  but  sometimes,  when  we  rowed  near  the 
ghore,  we  heard  the  peevish  note  of  a  hen,  or  some 
slight  domestic  sound,  which  Detrayed  them.  The  lock- 
men's  houses  were  particularly  well  placed,  retired,  and 
high,  always  at  falls  or  rapids,  and  commanding  tbtf 

Q 


258  A     WKKK. 

pleasantest  reaches  of  the  river,  —  for  it  is  generally 
.wider  and  more  lake-like  just  above  a  fall,  —  and  there 
they  wait  for  boats.  These  humble  dwellings,  homely 
and  sincere,  in  which  a  hearth  was  still  the  essential 
part,  were  more  pleasing  to  our  eyes  than  palaces  or 
castles  would  have  been.  In  the  noon  of  these  days,  as 
we  have  said,  we  occasionally  climbed  the  banks  and 
approached  these  houses,  to  get  a  glass  of  water  and 
make  acquaintance  with  their  inhabitants.  High  in  the 
leafy  bank,  surrounded  commonly  by  a  small  patch  of 
corn  and  beans,  squashes  and  melons,  with  sometimes  a 
graceful  hop-yard  on  one  side,  and  some  running  vine 
over  the  windows,  they  appeared  like  beehives  set  to 
gather  honey  for  a  summer.  I  have  not  read  of  any 
Arcadian  life  which  surpasses  tire  actual  luxury  and 
serenity  of  these  New  England  dwellings.  For  the  out 
ward  gilding,  at  least,  the  age  is  golden  enough.  As 
you  approach  the  sunny  doorway,  awakening  the  echoes 
by  your  steps,  still  no  sound  from  these  barracks  of 
repose,  and  you  fear  that  the  gentlest  knock  may  seem 
rude  to  the  Oriental  dreamers.  The  door  is  opened,  per 
chance,  by  some  Yankee-Hindoo  woman,  whose  small- 
voiced  but  sincere  hospitality,  out  of  the  bottomless 
depths  of  a  quiet  nature,  has  travelled  quite  round  to  the 
opposite  side,  and  fears  only  to  obtrude  its  kindness. 
You  step  over  the  white-scoured  floor  to  the  bright 
"  dresser  "  lightly,  as  if  afraid  to  disturb  the  devotions 
of  the  household,  —  for  Oriental  dynasties  appear  to  have 
passed  away  since  the  dinner-table  was  last  spread  here, 
—and  thence  to  the  frequented  curb,  where  you  see 
your  long-forgotten,  unshaven  face  at  the  bottom,  i& 
juxtaposition  with  new-made  bu.tter  and  the  trout  in 
the  well.  "  Perhaps  you  would  like  some  molasses  and 


WEDNESDAY.  259 

ginger,"  suggests  the  faint  noon  voice.  Sometimes 
there  sits  the  brother  who  follows  the  sea,  their  repre 
sentative  man ;  who  knows  only  how  far  it  is  to  the 
nearest  port,  no  more  distances,  all  the  rest  is  sea  and 
distant  capes,  —  patting  the  dog,  or  dandling  the  kitten 
in  arms  that  were  stretched  by  the  cable  and  the  oar, 
pulling  against  Boreas  or  the  trade- winds.  He  looks 
up  at  the  stranger,  half  pleased,  half  astonished,  with  a 
mariner's  eye,  as  if  he  were  a  dolphin  within  cast.  If 
men  will  believe  it,  sua  si  bona  norint,  there  are  no  more 
quiet  Tempes,  nor  more  poetic  and  Arcadian  lives,  than 
may  be  lived  in  these  New  England  dwellings.  We 
thought  that  the  employment  of  their  inhabitants  by  day 
would  be  to  tend  the  flowers  and  herds,  and  at  night, 
like  the  shepherds  of  old,  to  cluster  and  give  names  to 
the  stars  from  the  river  banks. 

We  passed  a  large  and  densely  wooded  island  this 
forenoon,  between  Short's  and  Griffith's  Falls,  the  fair 
est  which  we  had  met  with,  with  a  handsome  grove  of 
elms  at  its-head.  If  it  had  been  evening  we  should  have 
been  glad  to  camp  there.  Not  long  after,  one  or  two 
more  were  passed.  The  boatmen  told  us  that  the  cur 
rent  had  recently  made  important  changes  here.  An 
island  always  pleases  my  imagination,  even  the  smallest, 
as  a  small  continent  and  integra1  portion  of  the  globe. 
I  have  a  fancy  for  building  my  hut  on  one.  Even  a 
bare,  grassy  isle,  which  I  can  see  entirely  over  at  a 
glance,  has  some  undefined  and  mysterious  charm  for 
me.  There  is  commonly  such  a  one  at  the  junction  of 
two  rivers,  whose  currents  bring  down  and  deposit  their 
respective  sands  in  the  eddy  at  their  confluence,  as  it 
were  the  womb  of  a  continent.  By  what  a  delicate  and 
far-stretched  contribution  every  island  is  made !  What 


260  A    WEEK. 

an  enterprise  of  Nature  thus  to  lay  the  foundations  of 
and  to  build  up  the  future  continent,  of  golden  and  silver 
sands  and  the  ruins  of  forests,  with  ant-like  industry 
Pindar  gives  the  following  account  of  the  origin  of 
Thera,  whence,  in  after  times,  Libyan  Gyrene  was  set 
tled  by  Battus.  Triton,  in  the  form  of  Eurypylus,  pre 
sents  a  clod  to  Euphemus,  one  of  the  Argonauts,  as  they 
are  about  to  return  home. 

"  He  knew  of  our  haste, 
And  immediately  seizing  a  clod 
With  his  right  hand,  strove  to  give  it 
As  a  chance  stranger's  gift. 

Nor  did  the  hero  disregard  him,  but  leaping  on  the  shore, 
Stretching  hand  to  hand, 
Keceived  the  mystic  clod. 
Bat  I  hear  it  sinking  from  the  deck, 
Go  with  the  sea  brine 
At  evening,  accompanying  the  watery  sea. 
Often  indeed  I  urged  the  careless 
Menials  to  guard  it,  but  their  minds  forgot. 
And  now  in  this  island  the  imperishable  seed  of  spacious  Libya 
Is  spilled  before  its  hour." 

It  is  a  beautiful  fable,  also  related  by  Pindar,  how 
Helius,  or  the  Sun,  looked  down  into  the  sea  one  day,— 
when  perchance  his  rays  were  first  reflected  from  some 
increasing  glittering  sandbar,  —  and  saw  the  fair  and 
fruitful  island  of  Rhodes 

"  springing  up  from  the  bottom, 
Capable  of  feeding  many  men,  and  suitable  for  flocks; 

and  at  the  nod  of  Zeus, 

44  The  island  sprang  from  the  watery 
Sea  ;  and  the  genial  Father  of  penetrating  beams, 
Ruler  of  fire-breathing  horses,  has  it." 

The  shifting  islands !  who  would  not  be  willing  that 
hi*  house  should  be  undermined  by  such  a  foe!  Thf 


WEDNESDAY.  21 

inhabitant  of  an  island  can  tell  what  currents  formed  the 
land  which  he  cultivates ;  and  his  earth  is  still  being 
created  or  destroyed.  There  before  his  door,  perchance, 
still  empties  the  stream  which  brought  down  the  mate 
rial  of  his  farm  ages  before,  and  is  still  bringing  it  down 
or  washing  it  away,  —  the  graceful,  gentle  robber! 

Not  long  after  this  we  saw  the  Piscataquoag,  or 
Sparkling  Water,  emptying  in  on  our  left,  and  heard  the 
Falls  of  Arnoskeag  above.  Large  quantities  of  lumber, 
as  we  read  in  the  Gazetteer,  were  still  annually  floated 
down  the  Piscataquoag  to  the  Merrimack,  and  there  are 
many  fine  mill  privileges  on  it.  Just  above  the  mouth 
of  this  river  we  passed  the  artificial  falls  where  the 
canals  of  the  Manchester  Manufacturing  Company  dis 
charge  themselves  into  the  Merrimack.  They  are  strik 
ing  enough  to  have  a  name,  and,  with  the  scenery  of  a 
Bashpish,  would  be  visited  from  far  and  near.  The 
water  falls  thirty  or  forty  feet  over  seven  or  eight  steep 
and  narrow  terraces  of  stone,  probably  to  break  its  force, 
and  is  converted  into  one  mass  of  foam.  This  canal- 
water  did  not  seem  to  be  the  worse  for  the  wear,  but 
foamed  and  fumed  as  purely,  and  boomed  as  savagely 
and  impressively,  as  a  mountain  torrent,  and,  though  it 
came  from  under  a  factory,  we  saw  a  rainbow  here. 
These  are  now  the  Amoskeag  Falls,  removed  a  mile 
down-stream.  But  we  did  not  tarry  to  examine  them 
minutely,  making  haste  to  get  past  the  village  here  col 
lected,  and  out  of  hearing  of  the  hammer  which  was 
laying  the  foundation  of  another  Lowell  on  the  banks. 
A-t  the  time  of  our  voyage  Manchester  was  a  village  of 
about  two  thousand  inhabitants,  where  we  landed  for  a 
moment  to  get  some  nool  water,  and  where  an  inhabitant 
told  us  that  he  was  accustomed  to  go  across  the  river 


262  A    WEKK. 

into  GofiV-own  for  his  water.  But  now,  as  I  have  been 
told,  and  indeed  have  witnessed,  it  contains  fourteen 
thousand  inhabitants.  From  a  hill  on  the  road  betweefc 
Goffstown  and  Hooksett,  four  miles  distant,  I  have  seen 
a  thunder-shower  pass  over,  and  the  sun  break  out  and 
shine  on  a  city  there,  where  I  had  landed  nine  years 
before  in  the  fields;  and  there  was  waving  the  flag  of  its 
Museum,  where  "  the  only  perfect  skeleton  of  a  Green 
land  or  river  whale  in  the  United  States"  was  to  be 
seen,  and  I  also  read  in  its  directory  of  a  "  Manchester 
Athenaeum  and  Gallery  of  the  Fine  Arts." 

According  to  the  Gazetteer,  the  descent  of  Amoskeag 
Falls,  which  are  the  most  considerable  in  the  Merrimack, 
is  fifty-four  feet  in  half  a  mile.  We  locked  ourselves 
through  here  with  much  ado,  surmounting  the  successive 
watery  steps  of  this  river's  staircase  in  the  midst  of  a 
crowd  of  villagers,  jumping  into  the  canal  to  their  amuse 
ment,  to  save  our  boat  from  upsetting,  and  consuming 
much  river-water  in  our  service.  Amoskeag,  or  Namas- 
keak,  is  said  to  mean  "  great  fishing-place."  It  was 
hereabouts  that  the  Sachem  Wannalancet  resided.  Tra 
dition  says  that  his  tribe,  when  at  war  with  the  Mo 
hawks,  concealed  their  provisions  in  the  cavities  of  the 
rocks  in  the  upper  part  of  these  falls.  The  Indians,  who 
hid  their  provisions  in  these  holes,  and  affirmed  "  that 
God  had  cut  them  out  for  that  purpose,"  understood 
their  origin  and  use  better  than  the  Royal  Society,  who 
in  their  Transactions,  in  the  last  century,  speaking  of 
these  very  holes,  declare  that  "  they  seem  plainly  to  be 
artificial."  Similar  "  pot-holes "  may  be  seen  at  the 
Stone  Flume  on  this  river,  on  the  Ottaway,  at  Bellows 
Falls  on  the  Connecticut,  and  in  the  limestone  rock  at 
^helburne  Falls  on  Deerfield  River  in  Massachusetts 


WEDNESDAl.  263 

and  more  or  less  generally  about  all  falls.  Perhaps  the 
most  remarkable  curiosity  of  this  kind  in  New  England 
is  the  well-known  Basin  on  the  Pemigewasset,  one  of 
the  head-waters  of  this  river,  twenty  by  thirty  feet  in 
extent  and  proportionably  deep,  with  a  smooth  and 
rounded  brim,  and  filled  with  a  cold,  pellucid,  and  green 
ish  water.  At  Amoskeag  the  river  is  divided  into  many 
separate  torrents  and  trickling  rills  by  the  rocks,  and  its 
volume  is  so  much  reduced  by  the  drain  of  the  canals 
that  it  does  not  fill  its  bed.  There  are  many  pot-holes 
here  on  a  rocky  island  which  the  river  washes  over  in 
high  freshets.  As  at  Shelburne  Falls,  where  I  first  ob 
served  them,  they  are  from  one  foot  to  four  or  five  in 
diameter,  and  as  many  in  depth,  perfectly  round  and 
regular,  with  smooth  and  gracefully  curved  brims,  like 
goblets.  Their  origin  is  apparent  to  the  most  careless 
observer.  A  stone  which  the  current  has  washed  down, 
meeting  with  obstacles,  revolves  as  on  a  pivot  where  it 
lies,  gradually  sinking  in  the  course  of  centuries  deeper 
and  deeper  into  the  rock,  and  in  new  freshets  receiving 
the  aid  of  fresh  stones,  which  are  drawn  into  this  trap 
and  doomed  to  revolve  there  for  an  indefinite  period, 
doing  Sisyphus-like  penance  for  stony  sins,  until  they 
either  wear  out,  or  wear  through  the  bottom  of  their 
prison,  or  else  are  released  by  some  revolution  of  na 
ture.  There  lie  the  stones  of  various  sizes,  from  a  peb 
ble  to  a  foot  or  two  in  diameter,  some  of  which  have 
rested  from  their  labor  only  since  the  spring,  and  some 
higher  up  which  have  lain  still  and  dry  for  ages,  —  we 
noticed  some  here  at  least  sixteen  feet  above  the  present 
level  of  the  water,  —  while  others  are  still  revolving, 
and  enjoy  no  respite  at  any  season.  In  one  instance,  at 
Shelburne  Falls,  they  Lave  worn  quite  through  the  rock, 


264  A    WKEK. 

BO  that  a  portion  of  the  river  leaks  through  in  anticipa 
tion  of  the  fall.  Some  of  these  pot-poles  at  Amoskeag, 
in  a  very  hard  brown-stone,  had  an  oblong,  cylindrical 
stone  of  the  same  material  loosely  fitting  them.  One,  as 
much  as  fifteen  feet  deep  and  seven  or  eight  in  diameter, 
which  was  worn  quite  through  to  the  water,  had  a  huge 
rock  of  the  same  material,  smooth  but  of  irregular  form, 
lodged  in  it.  Everywhere  there  were  the  rudiments  or 
the  wrecks  of  a  dimple  in  the  rock;  the  rocky  shells  of 
whirlpools.  As  if  by  force  of  example  and  sympathy 
after  so  many  lessons,  the  rocks,  the  hardest  material, 
had  been  endeavoring  to  whirl  or  flow  into  the  forms  of 
the  most  fluid.  The  finest  workers  in  stone  are  not  cop 
per  or  steel  tools,  but  the  gentle  touches  of  air  and  water 
working  at  their  leisure  with  a  liberal  allowance  of  time. 
Not  only  have  some  of  these  basins  been  forming  for 
countless  ages,  but  others  exist  which  must  have  been 
completed  in  a  former  geological  period.  In  deepening. 
the  Pawtucket  Canal,  in  1822,  the  workmen  came  to 
ledges  with  pot-holes  in  them,  where  probably  was  once 
the  bed  of  the  river,  and  there  are  some,  we  are  told,  in 
the  town  of  Canaan  in  this  State,  with  the  stones  still  in 
them,  on  the  height  of  land  between  the  Merrimack  and 
Connecticut,  and  nearly  a  thousand  feet  above  these 
rivers,  proving  that  the  mountains  and  the  rivers  have 
changed  places.  There  lie  the  stones  which  completed 
their  revolutions  perhaps  before  thoughts  began  to  re 
volve  in  the  brain  of  man.  The  periods  of  Hindoo  and 
Chinese  history,  though  they  reach  back  to  the  time 
when  the  race  of  mortals  is  confounded  with  the  race  of 
gods,  are  as  nothing  compared  with  the  periods  which 
these  stones  have  inscribed.  That  which  commenced  9 
rock  when  time  was  young,  shall  conclude  a  pebble  in 


WEDNESDAY.  265 

the  unequal  contest.  With  such  expense  of  time  and 
natural  forces  are  our  very  paving-stones  produced. 
They  teach  us  lessons,  these  dumb  workers ;  verily  there 
are  "  sermons  in  stones,  and  books  in  the  running 
streams."  In  these  very  holes  the  Indians  hid  their 
provisions ;  but  now  there  is  no  bread,  but  only  its  old 
neighbor  stones  at  the  bottom  Who  knows  how  many 
races  they  have  served  thus  ?  By  as  simple  a  law,  some 
accidental  by-law,  perchance,  our  system  itself  was  made 
ready  for  its  inhabitants. 

These,  and  such  as  these,  must  be  our  antiquities,  for 
lack  of  human  vestiges.  The  monuments  of  heroes  and 
the  temples  of  the  gods  which  may  once  have  stood  on 
the  banks  of  this  river  are  now,  at  any  rate,  returned  to 
dust  and  primitive  soil.  The  murmur  of  unchronicled 
nations  has  died  away  along  these  shores,  and  once 
more  Lowell  and  Manchester  are  on  the  trail  of  the 
Indian. 

The  fact  that  Romans  once  inhabited  her  reflects  no 
little  dignity  on  Nature  herself;  that  from  some  particu 
lar  hill  the  Roman  once  looked  out  on  the  sea.  She 
need  not  be  ashamed  of  the  vestiges  of  her  children. 
How  gladly  the  antiquary  informs  us  that  their  vessels 
penetrated  into  this  frith,  or  up  that  river  of  some  re 
mote  isle!  Their  military  monuments  still  remain  on 
the  hills  and  under  the  sod  of  the  valleys.  The  oft- 
repeated  Roman  story  is  written  in  still  legible  charac 
ters  in  every  quarter  of  the  Old  World,  and  but  to-day, 
perchance,  a  new  coin  is  dug  up  whose  inscription  re 
peats  and  confirms  their  fame.  Some  "  Judaea  Capta" 
with  a  woman  mourning  under  a  palm-tree,  with  silent 
argument  and  demonstration  confirms  the  pages  of  his 
tory. 

12 


2G(>  A    WEEK. 

"  Rome  living  was  the  world's  sole  ornament; 
And  dead  is  now  the  world's  sole  monument. 

With  her  own  weight  down  pressed  now  she  lies, 
And  by  her  heaps  her  hugeness  testifies." 

If  one  doubts  whether  Grecian  valor  and  patriotism 
are  not  a  fiction  of  the  poets,  he  may  go  to  Athens  and 
see  still  upon  the  walls  of  the  temple  of  Minerva  the  cir 
cular  marks  made  by  the  shields  taken  from  the  enemy 
in  the  Persian  war,  which  were  suspended  there.  We 
have  not  far  to  seek  for  living  and  unquestionable  evi 
dence.  The  very  dust  takes  shape  and  confirms  some 
story  which  we  had  read.  As  Fuller  said,  commenting 
on  the  zeal  of  Camden,  "  A  broken  urn  is  a  whole  evi 
dence;  or  an  old  gate  still  surviving  out  of  which  the 
city  is  run  out."  When  Solon  endeavored  to  prove  that 
Salamis  had  formerly  belonged  to  the  Athenians,  and 
not  to  the  Megareans,  he  caused  the  tombs  to  be  opened, 
and  showed  that  the  inhabitants  of  Salamis  turned  the 
faces  of  their  dead  to  the  same  side  with  the  Athenians, 
but  the  Megareans  to  the  opposite  side.  There  they 
were  to  be  interrogated. 

Some  minds  are  as  little  logical  or  argumentative  as 
nature ;  they  can  offer  no  reason  or  "  guess,"  but  they 
exhibit  the  solemn  and  incontrovertible  fact.  If  a  his 
torical  question  arises,  they  cause  the  tombs  to  be 
opened.  Their  silent  and  practical  logic  convinces  the 
reason  and  the  understanding  at  the  same  time.  Of 
euch  sort  is  always  the  only  pertinent  question  and  the 
only  satisfactory  reply. 

Our  own  country  furnishes  antiquities  as  ancient  and 
durable,  and  as  useful,  as  any ;  rocks  at  least  as  weLr 
covered  with  lichens,  and  a  soil  which,  if  it  is  virgin,  is 
but  virgin  mould,  the  very  dust  of  nature.  What  if  wt 


WEDNESDAY.  267 

.•sinnot  read  Rome,  or  Greece.  Etruria,  or  Carthage,  or 
\£gypt,  or  Babylon,  on  these  ;  are  our  cliffs  bare  ?  The 
\ichen  on  the  rocks  is  a  rude  and  simple  shield  which 
beginning  and  imperfect  Nature  suspended  there.  Still 
hangs  her  wrinkled  trophy.  And  here  too  the  poet's 
^ye  may  still  detect  the  brazen  nails  which  fastened 
Time's  inscriptions,  and  if  he  has  the  gift,  decipher  them 
n)y  this  clew.  The  walls  that  fence  our  fields,  as  well  as 
modern  Rome,  and  not  less  the  Parthenon  itself,  are  all 
built  of  ruins.  Here  may  be  heard  the  din  of  rivers, 
*nd  ancient  winds  which  have  long  since  lost  their 
L\8Miaes  sough  through  our  woods;  —  the  first  faint  sounds 
of  spring,  older  than  the  summer  of  Athenian  glory,  the 
iitraouse  lisping  in  the  wood,  the  jay's  scream,  and  blue 
bird's  warble,  and  the  hum  of 

"  bees  that  fly 
About  the  laughing  blossoms  of  sallowy." 

Here  ifl  the  gray  dawn  for  antiquity,  and  our  to-mor- 
ro'v's  future  should  be  at  least  paulo-post  to  theirs  which 
wo  bjive  put  behind  us.  There  are  the  red-maple  and 
biroV.u  leaves,  old  runes  which  are  not  yet  deciphered  ; 
catkin  \  pine-cones,  vines,  oak-leaves,  and  acorns ;  the 
very  tUnga  themselves,  and  not  their  forms  in  stone,  — 
so  mu?h  the  more  ancient  and  venerable.  And  even  to 
the  current  summer  there  has  come  down  tradition  of  a 
hoary-heMod  master  of  all  art,  who  once  filled  every 
field  and  ^rove  with  statues  and  god  \i\x  architecture, 
of  every  dc&igo  which  Greece  has  late"}  rv?:*«id ;  whose 
ruins  are  novr  mingle  1  with  the  dast,  and  r.c v  one  block 
remains  upo:i  mjcthei.  TLe  century  sun  and  IT  wearied 
rain  have  wart-yl  them,  till  rot  one  fragment  firva  that 
quarry  now  exiru ;  and  poe^  perchance  will  feij'o  that 
gods  sent  down  the* 


268  A.    WtiKK. 

What  though  the  traveller  tell  us  of  the  ruins  of 
Egypt,  are  we  so  sick  or  idle,  that  we  must  sacrifice  our 
America  and  to-day  to  some  man's  ill-remembered  and 
indolent  story?  Carnac  and  Luxor  are  but  names,  or  if 
their  skeletons  remain,  still  more  desert  sand,  and  at 
length  a  wave  of  the  Mediterranean  Sea  are  needed  to 
wash  away  the  filth  that  attaches  to  their  grandeur. 
Carnac !  Carnac !  here  is  Carnac  for  me.  I  behold  the 
columns  of  a  larger  and  purer  temple. 

This  is  my  Carnnc,  whose  unmeasured  dome 
Shelters  the  measuring  art  and  measurer's  home. 
Behold  these  flowers,  let  us  be  up  with  time, 
Not  dreaming  of  three  thousand  years  ago, 
Erect  ourselves  and  let  those  columns  lie, 
Not  stoop  to  raise  a  foil  against  the  sky. 
Where  is  the  spirit  of  that  time  but  in 
This  present  day,  perchance  the  present  line? 
Three  thousand  years  ago  are  not  agone, 
They  are  still  lingering  in  this  summer  morn, 
And  Memnon's  Mother  sprightly  greets  us  now, 
Wearing  her  youthful  radiance  on  her  brow. 
If  Carnac's  columns  still  stand  on  the  plain, 
To  enjoy  our  opportunities  they  remain. 

In  these  parts  dwelt  the  famous  Sachem  Pasacona- 
way,  who  was  seen  by  Gookin  "  at  Pawtucket,  when  he 
was  about  one  hundred  and  twenty  years  old."  He  was 
reputed  a  wise  man  and  a  powwow,  and  restrained  his 
people  from  going  to  war  with  the  English.  They  be 
lieved  "  that  he  could  make  water  burn,  rocks  move,  and 
trees  dance,  and  metamorphose  himself  into  a  flaming 
man  ;  that  in  winter  he  could  raise  a  green  leaf  out  of 
the  ashes  of  a  dry  one,  and  produce  a  living  snake  from 
the  skin  of  a  dead  one,  and  many  similar  miracles."  Ir 
1G60,  according  to  Gookin,  at  a  great  feast  and  danc^ 
he  made  his  farewell  speech  to  his  people,  in  which  he 


WEDNESDAY.  269 

laid,  that  as  he  was  not  likely  to  see  them  met  together 
again,  he  would  leave  them  this  word  of  advice,  to  take 
heed  how  they  quarrelled  with  their  English  neighbors, 
for  though  they  might  do  them  much  mischief  at  first,  it 
would  prove  the  means  of  their  own  destruction.  He 
himself,  he  said,  had  been  as  much  an  enemy  to  the 
English  at  their  first  coming  as  any,  and  had  used  all 
his  arts  to  destroy  them,  or  at  least  to  prevent  their 
settlement,  but  could  by  no  means  effect  it.  Gookin 
thought  that  he  "  possibly  might  have  such  a  kind  of 
spirit  upon  him  as  was  upon  Balaam,  who  in  xxiii. 
Numbers,  23,  said  '  Surely,  there  is  no  enchantment 
against  Jacob,  neither  is  there  any  divination  against 
Israel.'"  His  son  Wannalancet  carefully  followed  his 
advice,  and  when  Philip's  War  broke  out,  he  withdrew 
his  followers  to  Penacook,  now  Concord  in  New  Hamp 
shire,  from  the  scene  of  the  war.  On  his  return  after 
wards,  he  visited  the  minister  of  Chelmsford,  and,  as  is 
stated  in  the  history  of  that  town,  "wished  to  know 
whether  Chelmsford  had  suffered  much  during  the  war ; 
and  being  informed  that  it  had  not,  and  that  God  should 
be  thanked  for  it,  Wannalancet  replied,  '  Me  next.' " 

Manchester  was  the  residence  of  John  Stark,  a  hero 
of  two  wars,  and  survivor  of  a  third,  and  at  his  death 
the  last  but  one  of  the  American  generals  of  the  Revo 
lution.  He  was  born  in  the  adjoining  town  of  London- 
lerry,  then  Nutfield,  in  1728.  As  early  as  1752,  he 
was  taken  prisoner  by  the  Indians  while  hunting  in  the 
wilderness  near  Baker's  River;  he  performed  notable 
service  as  a  captain  of  rangers  in  the  French  war ;  com 
manded  a  regiment  of  the  New  Hampshire  militia  at  the 
battle  of  Bunker  Hill ;  and  fought  and  won  the  battle  of 
Bennington  in  1777.  He  was  past  service  in  the  last 


270  A    WEEK. 

war,  and  died  here  in  1822,  at  the  age  of  ',  **&  mon 
ument  stands  upon  the  second  bank  of  the  river,  about  a 
mile  and  a  half  above  the  falls,  and  commands  a  pros 
pect  several  miles  up  and  down  the  Merrimack.  It  sug 
gested  how  much  more  impressive  in  the  landscape  is 
the  tomb  of  a  hero  than  the  dwellings  of  the  inglorious 
living.  Who  is  most  dead,  —  a  hero  by  whose  monu 
ment  you  stand,  or  his  descendants  of  whom  you  have 
never  heard? 

The  graves  of  Ptsaconaway  and  Wannalancet  are 
marked  by  no  monument  on  the  bank  of  their  native 
river. 

Every  town  which  we  passed,  if  we  may  believe  the 
Gazetteer,  had  been  the  residence  of  some  great  man. 
But  though  we  knocked  at  many  doors,  and  even  made 
particular  inquiries,  we  could  not  find  that  there  were 
any  now  living.  Under  the  head  of  Litchfield  we 
read :  — 

"  The  Hon.  Wyseman  Clagett  closed  his  life  in  this  town." 
According  to  another,  "  He  was  a  classical  scholar,  a  good 
lawyer,  a  wit,  and  a  poet."  We  saw  his  old  gray  house  just 
below  Great  Nesenkeag  Brook.  —  Under  the  head  of  Merri 
mack  :  "Hon.  Mathew  Thornton,  one  of  the  signers  of  the 
Declaration  of  American  Independence,  resided  many  years 
m  this  town."  His  house  too  we  saw  from  the  river.  —  "  Dr. 
Jonathan  Gove,  a  man  distinguished  for  his  urbanity,  his  tal 
ents  and  professional  skill,  resided  in  this  town  [Goffstown]. 
He  was  one  of  the  oldest  practitioners  of  medicine  in  the 
county.  He  was  many  years  an  active  member  of  the  legis 
lature." —  "Hon.  Robert  Means,  who  died  Jan.  24,  1823,  at 
the  age  of  80,  was  for  a  long  period  a  resident  in  Amherst 
He  was  a  native  of  Ireland.  In  1764  he  came  to  this  coun 
try,  where,  by  his  industry  and  application  to  business,  h« 
acquired  a  large  property,  and  great  respect."  —  "  Willian 


WEDNESDAY.  271 

Stinson  [0113  of  the  first  settlers  of  Dunbarton],  born  in  Ire 
land,  came  to  Londonderry  with  his  father.  He  was  much 
respected  and  was  a  useful  man.  James  Rogers  was  from 
Ireland,  and  father  to  Major  Robert  Rogers.  He  was  shot 
in  the  woods,  being  mistaken  for  a  bear."  —  "  Rev.  Matthew 
Clark,  second  minister  of  Londonderry,  was  a  native  of  Ire 
land,  who  had  in  early  life  been  an  officer  in  the  army,  and 
distinguished  himself  in  the  defence  of  the  city  of  London 
derry,  when  besieged  by  the  army  of  King  James  II.  A.  D. 
1688-9.  He  afterwards  relinquished  a  military  nfe  for  the 
clerical  profession.  He  possessed  a  strong  mind,  marked  by 
a  considerable  degree  of  eccentricity.  He  died  Jan.  25, 
1 735,  and  was  borne  to  the  grave,  at  his  particular  request,  by 
his  former  companions  in  arms,  of  whom  there  were  a  consid 
erable  number  among  the  early  settlers  of  this  town ;  several 
of  them  had  been  made  free  from  taxes  throughout  the  Brit 
ish  dominions  by  King  William,  for  their  bravery  in  that 
memorable  siege."  —  Col.  George  Reid  and  Capt.  David 
M'Clary,  also  citizens  of  Londonderry,  were  "  distinguished 
and  brave  "  officers.  —  "  Major  Andrew  M'Clary,  a  native 
of  this  town  [Epsom],  fell  at  the  battle  of  Breed's  Hill."  — 
Many  of  these  heroes,  like  the  illustrious  Roman,  were  plough 
ing  when  the  news  of  the  massacre  at  Lexington  arrived,  and 
straightway  left  their  ploughs  in  the  furrow,  and  repaired  to 
the  scene  of  action.  Some  miles  from  where  we  now  were, 
there  once  stood  a  guide-post  on  which  were  the  words,  "  3 
miles  to  Squire  MacGaw's." 

But  generally  speaking,  the  land  is  now,  at  any  rate, 
very  barren  of  men,  and  we  doubt  if  there  are  as  many 
hundreds  as  we  read  of.  It  may  be  that  we  stood  too 
near. 

Uucannunuc  Mountain  in  Goffstown  was  visible  from 
Amoskeag,  five  or  six  miles  westward.  It  is  the  north- 
easternmost  in  the  horizon,  which  we  see  from  our  na 
tive  town,  but  seen  from  there  is  too  ethereally  blue  to 


J  A    WEEK. 

I>e  the  same  which  the  like  of  us  have  ever  climbed 
Its  name  is  said  to  mean  "  The  Two  Breasts,"  there  be 
ing  two  eminences  some  distance  apart.  The  highe&i, 
which  is  about  fourteen  hundred  feet  above  the  sea, 
probably  affords  a  more  extensive  view  of  the  Merri- 
mack  valley  and  the  adjacent  country  than  any  other 
hill,  though  it  is  somewhat  obstructed  by  woods.  Only 
a  few  short  reaches  of  the  river  are  visible,  but  you  can 
trace  its  course  far  down  stream  by  the  sandy  tracts  on 
its  banks. 

A  little  south  of  Uncannunuc,  about  sixty  years  ago, 
as  the  story  goes,  an  old  woman  who  went  out  to  gather 
^pennyroyal,  tript  her  foot  in  the  bail  of  a  small  brass, 
kettle  in  the  dead  grass  and  bushes.  Some  say  that 
flints  and  charcoal  and  some  traces  of  a  camp  were  also 
found.  This  kettle,  holding  about  four  quarts,  is  still 
preserved  and  used  to  dye  thread  in.  It  is  supposed  to 
have  belonged  to  some  old  French  or  Indian  hunter,  who 
was  killed  in  one  of  his  hunting  or  scouting  excursions, 
and  so  never  returned  to  look  after  his  kettle. 

But  we  were  most  interested  to  hear  of  the  penny 
royal,  it  is  soothing  to  be  reminded  that  wild  nature  pro 
duces  anything  ready  for  the  use  of  man.  Men  know 
that  something  is  good.  One  says  that  it  is  yellow-dock, 
another  that  it  is  bitter-sweet,  another  that  it  is  slippery- 
elm  bark,  burdock,  catnip,  calamint,  elicampane,  thor 
ough  wort,  or  pennyroyal.  A  man  may  esteem  himself 
happy  when  that  which  is  his  food  is  also  his  medicine. 
There  is  no  kind  of  herb,  but  somebody  or  other  says 
that  it  is  good.  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it.  It  reminds 
me  of  the  first  chapter  of  Genesis.  But  how  should  they 
know  that,  it  is  good?  That  is  the  mystery  to  me.  1 
%m  always  agreeably  disappointed ;  it  is  incredible  thaf 


WEDNESDAY.  273 

they  should  have  found  it  out.  Since  all  things  are 
good,  men  fail  at  last  to  distinguish  which  is  the  bane, 
and  which  the  antidote.  There  are  sure  to  be  two  pre 
scriptions  diametrically  opposite.  Stuff  a  cold  and  starve 
a  cold  are  but  two  ways.  They  are  the  two  practices 
both  always  in  full  blast.  Yet  you  must  take  advice  of 
the  one  school  as  if  there  was  no  other.  In  respect  to 
religion  and  the  healing  art,  all  nations  are  still  in  a 
state  of  barbarism.  In  the  most  civilized  countries  the 
priest  is  still  but  a  Powwow,  and  the  physician  a  Great 
Medicine.  Consider  the  deference  which  is  everywhere 
paid  to  a  doctor's  opinion.  Nothing  more  strikingly  be 
trays  the  credulity  of  mankind  than  medicine.  Quack 
ery  is  a  thing  universal,  and  universally  successful.  In 
this  case  it  becomes  literally  true  that  no  imposition  is 
too  great  for  the  credulity  of  men.  Priests  and  physi 
cians  should  never  look  one  another  in  the  face.  They 
have  no  common  ground,  nor  is  there  any  to  mediate 
between  them.  When  the  one  comes,  the  other  goes. 
They  could  not  come  together  without  laughter,  or  a  sig 
nificant  silence,  for  the  one's  profession  is  a  satire  on  the 
other's,  and  cither's  success  would  be  the  other's  ijilure. 
It  is  wonderful  that  the  physician  should  ever  die,  and 
that  the  priest  should  ever  live.  Why  is  it  that  the  priest 
is  never  called  to  consult  with  the  physician  ?  Is  it  be- 
oause  men  believe  practically  that  matter  is  independent 
of  spirit.  But  what  is  quackery  ?  It  is  commonly  an 
attempt  to  cure  the  diseases  of  a  man  by  addressing  hia 
body  alone.  There  is  need  of  a  physician  who  shall 
\ninister  to  both  soul  and  body  at  once,  that  is,  to  man. 
Now  he  falls  between  two  douls. 

After  passing  through  the  locks,  we  had  poled  our 
selves  through  the  canal  here,  ahoat  half  a  mile  in  length, 

JS>*  R 


274  A    WEEK. 

to  the  boatable  part  of  the  river.  Above  Amoskeag  the 
river  spreads  out  into  a  lake  reaching  a  mile  or  two  with 
out  a  bend.  There  were  many  canal-boats  here  bound 
up  to  Hooksett,  about  eight  miles,  and  as  they  were  going 
up  empty  with  a  fair  wind,  one  boatman  offered  to  take 
us  in  tow  if  we  would  wait.  But  when  we  came  along 
side,  we  found  that  they  meant  to  take  us  on  board,  since 
otherwise  we  should  clog  their  motions  too  much ;  but 
as  our  boat  was  too  heavy  to  be  lifted  aboard,  we  pur 
sued  our  way  up  the  stream,  as  before,  while  the  boat 
men  were  at  their  dinner,  and  came  to  anchor  at  length 
under  some  alders  on  the  opposite  shore,  where  we  could 
take  our  lunch.  Though  far  on  one  side,  every  sound  was 
wafted  over  to  us  from  the  opposite  bank,  and  from  the 
harbor  of  the  canal,  and  we  could  see  everything  that 
passed.  By  and  by  came  several  canal-boats,  at  inter 
vals  of  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  standing  up  to  Hooksett  with 
a  light  breeze,  and  one  by  one  disappeared  round  a  point 
above.  With  their  broad  sails  set,  they  moved  slowly 
np  the  stream  in  the  sluggish  and  fitful  breeze,  like  one- 
winged  antediluvian  birds,  and  as  if  impelled  by  some 
mysterious  counter-current.  It  was  a  grand  motion,  so 
slow  and  stately,  this  u  standing  out,"  as  the  phrase  is, 
expressing  the  gradual  and  steady  progress  of  a  vessel,  as 
if  it  were  by  mere  rectitude  and  disposition,  without  shuf 
fling.  Their  sails,  which  stood  so  still,  were  like  chips 
cast  into  the  current  of  the  air  to  show  which  way  it  set. 
At  length  the  boat  which  we  had  spoken  came  along, 
keeping  the  middle  of  the  stream,  and  when  within 
speaking  distance  the  steersman  called  out  ironically  to 
say,  that  if  we  would  come  alongside  now  he  would  take 
us  in  tow;  but  not  heeding  his  taunt,  we  still  loitered 
in  the  shade  till  we  had  finished  our  lunch,  and  whet 


WEDNESDAY.  275 

the  last  boa*  h:»d  disappeared  round  the  point  with  flap 
ping  sail,  for  the  breeze  had  now  sunk  to  a  zephyr,  with 
our  own  sails  set,  and  plying  our  oars,  we  shot  rapidly 
up  the  stream  in  pursuit,  and  as  we  glided  close  along 
side,  while  they  were  vainly  invoking  ^Eolus  to  their 
aid,  we  returned  their  compliment  by  proposing,  if  they 
would  throw  us  a  rope,  to  "  take  them  in  tow,"  to  which 
these  Merrimack  sailors  had  no  suitable  answer  ready. 
Thus  we  gradually  overtook  and  passed  each  boat  in 
succession  until  we  had  the  river  to  ourselves  again. 

Our  course  this  afternoon  was  between   Manchester 
and  Goffstown. 


While  we  float  here,  far  from  that  tributary  stream 
un  whose  banks  our  Friends  and  kindred  dwell,  our 
thoughts,  like  the  stars,  come  out  of  their  horizon  still ; 
for  there  circulates  a  finer  blood  than  Lavoisier  has  dis 
covered  the  laws  of,  —  the  blood,  not  of  kindred  merely, 
but  of  kindness,  whose  pulse  still  beats  at  any  distance 
and  forever. 

True  kindness  is  a  pure  divine  affinity, 
Not  founded  upon  human  consanguinity. 
It  is  a  spirit,  not  a  blood  relation, 
Superior  to  family  and  station. 

After  years  of  vain  familiarity,  some  distant  gesture  or 
unconscious  behavior,  which  we  remember,  speaks  to  us 
with  more  emphasis  than  the  wisest  or  kindest  words. 
We  are  sometimes  made  aware  of  a  kindness  long 
passed,  and  realize  that  there  have  been  times  when  our 
Friends'  thoughts  of  us  were  of  so  pure  and  lofty  a 
character  that  they  passed  over  us  like  the  winds  of 
heaven  unnoticed ;  when  th?y  treated  us  not  as  what 


276  A     WKEK. 

we  were,  but  as  what  we  aspired  to  be.  There  has  just 
reached  us,  it  may  be,  the  nobleness  of  some  such  silent 
behavior,  not  to  be  forgotten,  not  to  be  remembered, 
and  we  shudder  to  think  how  it  fell  on  us  cold,  though 
in  some  true  but  tardy  hour  we  endeavor  to  wipe  off 
these  scores. 

In  my  experience,  persons,  when  they  are  made  the 
subject  of  conversation,  though  with  a  Friend,  are  com 
monly  the  most  prosaic  and  trivial  of  facts.  The  uni 
verse  seems  bankrupt  as  soon  as  we  begin  to  discuss 
the  character  of  individuals.  Our  discourse  all  runs  to 
Blander,  and  our  limits  grow  narrower  as  wre  advance. 
How  is  it  tiiat  we  are  impelled  to  treat  our  old  Friends 
BO  ill  when  we  obtain  new  ones?  The  housekeeper 
says,  I  never  had  any  new  crockery  in  my  life  but  I 
began  to  break  the  old.  I  say,  let  us  speak  of  mush 
rooms  and  forest  trees  rather.  Yet  we  can  sometimes 
afford  to  remember  them  in  private. 

Lately,  alas,  I  knew  a  gentle  boy, 

Whose  features  all  were  cast  in  Virtue's  mould, 

As  one  she  had  designed  for  Beauty's  toy, 

But  after  manned  him  for  her  own  strong-hold. 

On  every  side  he  open  was  as  day, 
That  you  might  see  no  lack  of  strength  within, 

For  walls  and  ports  do  only  serve  alway 
For  a  pretence  to  feebleness  and  sin. 

Say  not  that  C«sar  was  victorious, 

With  toil  and  strife  who  stormed  the  House  of  Fame, 
In  other  sense  this  youth  was  glorious, 

Himself  a  kingdom  wheresoe'er  he  came. 

No  strength  went  out  to  get  him  victory, 

When  all  was  income  of  its  own  accord; 
For  where  he  went  none  other  was  to  see, 

But  all  were  nurcel  of  their  noble  lord. 


WEDNESDAY.  277 

He  forayed  like  the  subtile  haze  of  summer, 
That  stilly  snows  fresh  landscapes  to  our  eye*, 

And  revolutions  works  without  a  murmur, 
Or  rustling  of  a  leaf  beneath  the  skies. 

So  was  I  taken  unawares  by  this, 

I  quite  forgot  my  homage  to  confess; 
Yet  now  am  forced  to  know,  though  hard  it  is, 

I  might  have  loved  him  had  1  loved  him  les«. 

Each  moment  as  we  nearer  drew  to  each, 

A  stern  respect  withheld  us  farther  yet, 
So  that  we  seemed  beyond  each  other's  reach, 

And  less  acquainted  than  when  first  we  met. 

We  two  were  one  while  we  did  sympathize, 
So  could  we  not  the  simplest  bargain  drive  j 

And  what  avails  it  now  that  we  are  wise, 
If  absence  doth  this  doubleness  contrive? 

Eternity  may  not  the  chance  repeat, 

But  I  must  tread  my  single  way  alone, 
In  sad  remembrance  that  we  once  did  meet, 

And  know  that  bliss  irrevocably  gone. 

The  spheres  henceforth  my  elegy  shall  sing, 

For  elegy  has  other  subject  none; 
Each  strain  of  music  in  my  ears  shall  ring 

Knell  of  departure  from  that  other  one. 

Make  haste  and  celebrate  my  tragedy; 

With  fitting  strain  resound  ye  woods  and  fields; 
Sorrow  is  dearer  in  such  case  to  me 

Than  all  the  joys  other  occasion  yields. 


Is't  then  too  late  the  damage  to  repair? 

Distance,  forsooth,  from  my  weak  grasp  hath  raft 
The  empty  husk,  and  clutched  the  useless  tare, 

But  in  my  hands  the  wheat  and  kernel  left. 

If  I  but  love  that  virtue  which  he  is, 

Though  it  be  scented  in  the  morning  air, 

Still  shall  we  be  truest  acquaintances, 
Nor  mortals  know  a  sympathy  more  rare. 


278  A     WEEK. 

Friendship  is  evanescent  in  every  man's  experience, 
and  remembered  like  heat  lightning  in  past  summers. 
Fair  and  flitting  like  a  summer  cloud  ;  —  there  is  always 
Borne  vapor  in  the  air,  no  matter  how  long  the  drought 
there  are  even  April  showers.  Surely  from  time  to 
time,  for  its  vestiges  never  depart,  it  floats  through  our 
atmosphere.  It  takes  place,  like  vegetation  in  so  many 
materials,  because  there  is  such  a  law,  but  always  with 
out  permanent  form,  though  ancient  and  familiar  as  the 
Bun  and  moon,  and  as  sure  to  come  again.  The  heart 
is  forever  inexperienced.  They  silently  gather  as  by 
magic,  these  never  failing,  never  quite  deceiving  visions, 
like  the  bright  and  fleecy  clouds  in  the  calmest  and 
clearest  days.  The  Friend  is  some  fair  floating  isle  of 
palms  eluding  the  mariner  in  Pacific  seas.  Many  are 
the  dangers  to  be  encountered,  equinoctial  gales  and 
coral  reefs,  ere  he  may  sail  before  the  constant  trades. 
But  who  would  not  sail  through  mutiny  and  storm,  even 
over  Atlantic  waves,  to  reach  the  fabulous  retreating 
shores  of  some  continent  man?  The  imagination  still 
clings  to  the  faintest  tradition  of 

THE  ATLANTIDES. 

The  smothered  streams  of  love,  which  flow 

More  bright  than  Phlegethon,  more  low, 

Island  us  ever,  like  the  sea, 

In  an  Atlantic  mystery. 

Our  fabled  shores  none  ever  reach, 

No  mariner  has  found  our  beach, 

Scarcely  our  mirage  now  is  seen, 

And  neighboring  waves  with  floating  green, 

Yet  still  the  oldest  charts  contain 

Some  dotted  outline  of  our  main; 

In  ancient  times  midsummer  days 

Unto  the  western  islands'  gaze, 


WEDNESDAY. 

To  Teneriffe  and  tlie  Azores, 

Have  shown  our  faint  and  cloud-like  shores. 

But  sink  not  yet,  ye  desolate  isles, 
Anon  your  coast  with  commerce  smiles, 
And  richer  freights  ye  '11  furnish  far 
Than  Africa  or  Malabar. 
Be  fair,  be  fertile  evermore, 
Ye  rumored  but  untrodden  shore, 
Princes  and  monarchs  will  contend 
Who  first  unto  your  land  shall  send, 
And  pawn  the  jewels  of  the  crown 
To  call  your  distant  soil  their  own. 

Columbus  has  sailed  westward  of  these  isles  by  tin 
mariner's  compass,  but  neither  he  nor  his  successors 
have  found  them.  We  are  no  nearer  than  Plato  was. 
The  earnest  seeker  and  hopeful  discoverer  of  this  New 
World  always  haunts  the  outskirts  of  his  time,  and  walks 
through  the  densest  crowd  uninterrupted,  and  as  it  were 
in  a  straight  line. 

Sea  and  land  are  but  his  neighbors, 

And  companions  in  his  labors, 

Who  on  the  ocean's  verge  and  firm  land's  end 

Doth  long  and  truly  seek  his  Friend. 

Many  men  dwell  far  inland, 

But  he  alone  sits  on  the  strand. 

Whether  he  ponders  men  or  books 

Always  still  he  seaward  looks, 

Marine  news  he  ever  reads, 

And  the  slightest  glances  heeds, 

Feels  the  sea  breeze  on  his  cheek, 

At  each  word  the  landsmen  speak 

In  every  companion's  eye 

A  sailing  vessel  doth  descry; 

In  the  ocean's  sullen  roar 

From  some  distant  port  he  hears, 

Of  wrecks  upon  a  distant  shore, 

And  the  ventures  of  past  jears 


280  A    WEEK. 

Who  does  not  walk  on  the  plain  as  amid  the  columns 
of  Tadmore  of  the  desert?  There  is  on  the  earth  no 
institution  which  Friendship  has  established;  it  is  not 
taught  by  any  religion  ;  no  scripture  contains  its  maxims. 
It  has  no  temple,  nor  even  a  solitary  column.  There 
goes  a  rumor  that  the  earth  is  inhabited,  but  the  ship 
wrecked  mariner  has  not  seen  a  footprint  on  the  shore. 
The  hunter  has  found  only  fragments  of  pottery  and  the 
monuments  of  inhabitants. 

However,  our  fates  at  least  are  social.  Our  courses 
do  not  diverge ;  but  as  the  web  of  destiny  is  woven  it  is 
fulled,  and  we  are  cast  more  and  more  into  the  centre. 
Men  naturally,  though  feebly,  seek  this  alliance,  and 
their  actions  faintly  foretell  it.  We  are  inclined  to  lay 
the  chief  stress  on  likeness  and  not  on  difference,  and  in 
foreign  bodies  we  admit  that  there  are  many  degrees  of 
warmth  below  blood  heat,  but  none  of  cold  above  it. 

Mencius  says:  "If  one  loses  a  fowl  or  a  dog,  he 
knows  well  how  to  seek  them  again ;  if  one  loses  the 
sentiments  of  his  heart,  he  does  not  know  how  to  seek 

them  again The  duties  of  practical  philosophy 

consist  only  in  seeking  after  those  sentiments  of  the  heart 
which  we  have  lost ;  that  is  all." 

One  or  two  persons  come  to  my  house  from  time  to 
time,  there  being  proposed  to  them  the  faint  possibility 
of  intercourse.  They  are  as  full  as  they  are  silent,  and 
wait  foi  my  plectrum  to  stir  the  strings  of  their  lyre. 
If  they  could  ever  come  to  the  length  of  a  sentence,  01 
hear  one,  on  that  ground  they  are  dreaming  of!  They 
speak  faintly,  and  do  not  obtrude  themselves.  They 
have  heard  some  news,  which  none,  not  even  they  them 
selves,  can  impart.  It  is  a  wealth  they  can  bear  abou* 


WEDNESDAY.  281 

them  which  can  be  expended  in  various  ways.     What 
came  they  out  to  seek? 

No  word  is  oftener  on  the  lips  of  men  than  Friend 
ship,  and  indeed  no  thought  is  more  familiar  to  their 
aspirations.  All  men  are  dreaming  of  it,  and  its  drama, 
which  is  always  a  tragedy,  is  enacted  daily.  It  is  the 
secret  of  the  universe.  You  may  thread  the  town,  you 
may  wander  the  country,  and  none  shall  ever  speak  of 
it,  yet  thought  is  everywhere  busy  about  it,  and  the 
idea  of  what  is  possible  in  this  respect  affects  our  be 
havior  toward  all  new  men  and  women,  and  a  great 
many  old  ones.  Nevertheless,  I  can  remember  only 
two  or  three  essays  on  this  subject  in  all  literature.  No 
wonder  that  the  Mythology,  and  Arabian  Nights,  and 
Shakespeare,  and  Scott's  novels  entertain  us,  —  we  are 
poets  and  fablers  and  dramatists  and  novelists  ourselves. 
We  are  continually  acting  a  part  in  a  more  interesting 
drama  than  any  written.  We  are  dreaming  that  our 
Friends  are  our  Friends,  and  that  we  are  our  Friends' 
Friends.  Our  actual  Friends  are  but  distant  relations 
of  those  to  whom  we  are  pledged.  We  never  exchange 
more  than  three  words  with  a  Friend  in  our  lives  on 
that  level  to  which  our  thoughts  and  feelings  almost 
habitually  rise.  One  goes  forth  prepared  to  say,  "  Sweet 
Friends ! "  and  the  salutation  is,  "  Damn  your  eyes !  " 
But  never  mind  ;  faint  heart  never  won  true  Friend. 
O  my  Friend,  may  it  come  to  pass  once,  that  when  you 
are  my  Friend  I  may  be  yours. 

-Of  what  use  the  friendliest  dispositions  even,  if  there 
>re  no  hours  given  to  Friendship,  if  it  is  forever  post 
poned  to  unimportant  duties  and  relations  ?  Friendship 
J9  first,  Friendship  last.  But  it  is  equally  impossible  to 
forget  our  Friends,  and  to  make  them  answer  to  oni 


A     WEEK. 

ideal.  When  they  say  farewell,  then  indeed  we  begin 
to  keep  them  company.  How  often  we  find  ourselves 
turning  our  backs  on  our  actual  Friends,  that  we  may  go 
and  meet  their  ideal  cousins.  I  would  that  I  were  wor 
thy  to  be  any  man's  Friend. 

What  is  commonly  honored  with  the  name  of  Friend 
ship  is  no  very  profound  or  powerful  instinct.  Men  do 
not,  after  all,  love  their  Friends  greatly.  I  do  not  often 
see  the  farmers  made  seers  and  wise  to  the  verge  of  in 
sanity  by  their  Friendship  for  one  another.  They  are 
not  often  transfigured  and  translated  by  love  in  each 
other's  presence.  I  do  not  observe  them  purified,  re- 
lined,  and  elevated  by  the  love  of  a  man.  If  one  abates 
a  little  the  price  of  his  wood,  or  gives  a  neighbor  his 
vote  at  town-meeting,  or  a  barrel  of  apples,  or  lends  him 
his  wagon  frequently,  it  is  esteemed  a  rare  instance  of 
Friendship.  Nor  do  the  farmers'  wives  lead  lives  con 
secrated  to  Friendship.  I  do  not  see  the  pair  of  farmer 
Friends  of  either  sex  prepared  to  stand  against  the 
world.  There  are  only  two  or  three  couples  in  historv. 
To  say  that  a  man  is  your  Friend,  means  commonly  no 
more  than  this,  that  he  is  not  your  enemy.  Most  con 
template  only  what  would  be  the  accidental  and  trifling 
advantages  of  Friendship,  as  that  the  Friend  can  assist 
in  time  of  need,  by  his  substance,  or  his  influence,  or 
his  counsel ;  but  he  who  foresees  such  advantages  in  this 
relation  proves  himself  blind  to  its  real  advantage,  or  in 
deed  wholly  inexperienced  in  the  relation  itself.  Such 
services  are  particular  and  menial,  compared  with  the 
perpetual  and  all-embracing  service  which  it  is.  Even 
the  utmost  good-will  and  harmony  and  practical  kindness 
are  not  sufficient  for  Friendship,  for  Friends  do  not  live 
ai  harmony  merely,  as  some  say,  bat  in  melody.  W*i 


WUDNK8DAY.  283 

do  not  wish  for  Friends  to  feed  and  clothe  our  bodies,  — 
neighbors  are  kini  enough  for  that,  —  but  to  do  the  like 
office  to  our  spirits.  For  this  few  are  rich  enough,  how 
ever  well  disposed  they  may  be.  For  the  most  part  we 
stupidly  confound  one  man  with  another.  The  dull  dis 
tinguish  only  races  or  nations,  or  at  most  classes,  but  the 
wise  man,  individuals.  To  his  Friend  a  man's  peculiar 
character  appears  in  every  feature  and  in  every  action, 
and  it  is  thus  drawn  out  and  improved  by  him. 

Think  of  the  importance  of  Friendship  in  the  educa 
tion  of  men. 

"  He  that  hath  love  and  judgment  too, 
Sees  more  than  any  other  doe." 

It  will  make  a  man  honest ;  it  will  make  him  a  hero ; 
it  will  make  him  a  saint.  It  is  the  state  of  the  just  deal 
ing  with  the  just,  the  magnanimous  with  the  magnani 
mous,  the  sincere  with  the  sincere,  man  with  man. 

And  it  is  well  said  by  another  poet, 

"  Why  love  among  the  virtues  is  not  known, 
Is  that  love  is  them  all  contract  in  one." 

All  the  abuses  which  are  the  object  of  reform  with  the 
philanthropist,  the  statesman,  and  the  housekeeper  are 
unconsciously  amended  in  the  intercourse  of  Friends. 
A  Friend  is  one  who  incessantly  pays  us  the  compli 
ment  of  expecting  from  us  all  the  virtues,  and  who  can 
appreciate  them  in  us.  It  takes  two  to  speak  the  truth, 
—  one  to  speak,  and  another  to  hear.  How  can  one 
treat  with  magnanimity  mere  wood  and  stone  ?  If  we 
dealt  only  with  the  false  and  dishonest,  we  should  at  last 
forget  how  to  speak  truth.  Only  lovers  know  the  value 
and  magnanimity  of  truth,  while  traders  prize  a  cheap 
honesty,  and  neighbors  and  acquaintance  a  cheap  civility, 


284  A    WE  UK. 

In  our  daily  intercourse  with  men,  our  nobler  faculties 
are  dormant  and  suffered  to  rust.  None  will  pay  us  the 
compliment  to  expect  noblene<«  from  us.  Though  we 
have  gold  to  give,  they  demand  only  copper.  We  ask 
our  neighbor  to  suffer  himself  to  be  dealt  with  truly,  sin 
cerely,  nobly  ;  but  he  answers  no  by  his  deafness.  He 
does  not  even  hear  this  prayer.  He  says  practically, 
I  will  be  content  if  you  treat  me  as  "  no  better  than  I 
should  be,"  as  deceitful,  mean,  dishonest,  and  selfish. 
For  the  most  part,  we  are  contented  so  to  deal  and  to  be 
dealt  with,  and  we  do  not  think  that  for  the  mass  of  men 
there  is  any  truer  and  nobler  relation  possible.  A  man 
may  have  good  neighbors,  so  called,  and  acquaintances, 
and  even  companions,  wife,  parents,  brothers,  sisters, 
children,  who  meet  himself  and  one  another  on  this 
ground  only.  The  State  does  not  demand  justice  of  its 
members,  but  thinks  that  it  succeeds  very  well  with  the 
least  degree  of  it,  hardly  more  than  rogues  practise ;  and 
so  do  the  neighborhood  and  the  family.  What  is  com 
monly  called  Friendship  even  is  only  a  little  more 
honor  among  rogues. 

But  sometimes  we  are  said  to  love  another,  that  is,  to 
stand  in  a  true  relation  to  him,  so  that  we  give  the  best 
to,  and  receive  the  best  from,  him.  Between  whom 
there  is  hearty  truth,  there  is  love  ;  and  in  proportion  to 
our  truthfulness  and  confidence  in  one  another,  our  lives 
are  divine  and  miraculous,  and  answer  to  our  ideal. 
There  are  passages  of  affection  in  our  intercourse  with 
mortal  men  and  women,  such  as  no  prophecy  had  taught 
us  to  expect,  which  transcend  our  earthly  life,  and  anti 
cipate  Heaven  for  us.  What  is  this  Love  that  may  come 
right  into  the  middle  of  a  prosaic  Goffstown  day,  equa, 
to  any  of  the  gods?  that  discovers  a  new  world,  fair  an/1 


WEDNESDAY.  285 

fi*3sh  and  eternal,  occupying  the  place  of  the  old  one, 
when  to  the  common  eye  a  dust  has  settled  on  the  uni 
verse  ?  which  world  cannot  else  be  reached,  and  does 
not  exist.  What  other  words,  we  may  almost  ask,  are 
memorable  and  worthy  to  be  repeated  than  those  which 
love  has  inspired  ?  It  is  wonderful  that  they  were  ever 
uttered.  They  are  few  and  rare,  indeed,  but,  like  a 
strain  of  music,  they  are  incessantly  repeated  and  modu 
lated  by  the  memory.  All  other  words  crumble  off  with 
the  stucco  which  overlies  the  heart.  We  should  not 
dare  to  repeat  these  now  aloud.  We  are  not  competent 
to  hear  them  at  all  times. 

The  books  for  young  people  say  a  great  deal  about 
the  selection  of  Friends  ;  it  is  because  they  really  have 
nothing  to  say  about  Friends.  They  mean  associates  and 
confidants  merely.  "  Know  that  the  contrariety  of  foe 
and  Friend  proceeds  from  God."  Friendship  takes 
place  between  those  who  have  an  affinity  for  one  anoth 
er,  and  is  a  perfectly  natural  and  inevitable  result.  No 
professions  nor  advances  will  avail.  Even  speech,  at 
first,  necessarily  has  nothing  to  do  with  it ;  but  it  follows 
after  silence,  as  the  buds  in  the  graft  do  not  put  forth  into 
leaves  till  long  after  the  graft  has  taken.  It  is  a  drama 
in  which  the  parties  have  no  part  to  act.  We  are  all 
Mussulmen  and  fatalists  in  this  respect.  Impatient  and 
uncertain  lovers  think  that  they  must  say  or  do  some 
thing  kind  whenever  they  meet;  they  must  never  be 
,  old.  But  they  who  are  Friends  do  not  do  what  they 
think  they  must,  but  what  they  must.  Even  their  Friend 
ship  is  to  some  extent  but  a  sublime  phenomenon  to 
them. 

The  true  and  not  despairing  Friend  will  address  hii 
Friend  in  some  such  terms  as  these. 


286  A    WEEK. 

•'  I  never  asked  thy  leave  to  let  me  love  thee,  —  I 
have  a  right.  I  love  thee  not  as  something  private  and 
personal,  which  is  your  own,  but  as  something  universal 
and  worthy  of  love,  whiih  I  have  found.  O,  how  I  think 
of  you  !  You  are  purely  good,  —  you  are  infinitely  good. 
I  can  trust  you  forever.  I  did  not  think  that  humanity 
was  so  rich.  Give  me  an  opportunity  to  live." 

"  You  are  the  fact  in  a  fiction,  —  you  are  the  truth 
more  strange  and  admirable  than  fiction.  Consent  only  to 
be  what  you  are.  I  alone  will  never  stand  in  your  way." 

"This  is  what  I  would  like,  —  to  be  as  intimate  with 
you  as  our  spirits  are  intimate,  —  respecting  you  as  I 
respect  my  ideal.  Never  to  profane  one  another  by 
word  or  action,  even  by  a  thought.  Between  us,  if  ne 
cessary,  let  there  be  no  acquaintance." 

"I  have  discovered  you;  how  can  you  be  concealed 
from  me  ?  " 

The  Friend  asks  no  return  but  that  his  Friend  will 
religiously  accept  and  wear  and  not  disgrace  his  apothe 
osis  of  him.  They  cherish  each  other's  hopes.  They 
are  kind  to  each  other's  dreams. 

Though  the  poet  says,  "'  'T  is  the  pre-eminence  of 
Friendship  to  impute  excellence,"  yet  we  can  never 
praise  our  Friend,  nor  esteem  him  praiseworthy,  nor  let 
him  think  that  he  can  please  us  by  any  behavior,  or  ever 
treat  us  well  enough.  That  kindness  which  has  so  good 
a  reputation  elsewhere  can  least  of  all  consist  with  this 
relation,  and  no  such  affront  can  be  offered  to  a  Friend, 
as  a  conscious  good-will,  a  Tiendliness  which  is  not  a 
necessity  of  the  Friend's  nature. 

The  sexes  are  naturally  most  strongly  attracted  to  one 
mother,  by  constant  constitutional  differences,  and  ar« 


WEDNESDAY.  287 

most  commonly  and  surely  the  complements  of  each 
other.  How  natural  and  easy  it  is  for  man  to  secure  the 
attention  of  woman  to  what  interests  himself.  Men  and 
women  of  equal  culture,  thrown  together,  are  sure  to  be 
of  a  certain  value  to  one  another,  more  than  men  to  men. 
There  exists  already  a  natural  disinterestedness  and 
liberality  in  such  society,  and  I  think  that  any  man  will 
more  confidently  carry  his  favorite  books  to  read  to  some 
circle  of  intelligent  women,  than  to  one  of  his  own  sex. 
The  visit  of  man  to  man  is  wont  to  be  an  interruption, 
but  the  sexes  naturally  expect  one  another.  Yet  Friend 
ship  is  no  respecter  of  sex  ;  arid  perhaps  it  is  more  rare 
between  the  sexes  than  between  two  of  the  same  sex. 

Friendship  is,  at  any  rate,  a  relation  of  perfect  equal 
ity.  It  cannot  well  spare  any  outward  sign  of  equal 
obligation  and  advantage.  The  nobleman  can  never 
have  a  Friend  among  his  retainers,  nor  the  king  among 
his  subjects.  Not  that  the  parties  to  it  are  in  all  re 
spects  equal,  but  they  are  equal  in  all  that  respects  or 
affects  their  Friendship.  The  one's  love  is  exactly 
balanced  and  represented  by  the  other's.  Persons  are 
only  the  vessels  which  contain  the  nectar,  and  the 
hydrostatic  paradox  is  the  symbol  of  love's  law.  It 
finds  its  level  and  rises  to  its  fountain-head  in  all  breasts, 
and  its  slenderest  column  balances  the  ocean. 

"  And  love  as  well  the  shepherd  can 
As  can  the  mighty  nobleman." 

The  one  sex  is  not,  in  this  respect,  more  tender  than  the 
other.  A  hero's  love  is  as  delicate  as  a  maiden's. 

Confucius  said,  "  Never  contract  Friendship  with  a 
aian  who  is  not  better  than  thyself"  It  is  the  merit 
and  preservation  of  Friendship,  tha/  it  takes  place  on  a 


288  A    WEEK. 

level  higher  than  the  actual  characters  of  the  parties 
would  seem  to  warrant.  The  rays  of  light  come  to  us 
in  such  a  curve  that  every  man  whom  we  meet  appears 
to  be  taller  than  he  actually  is.  Such  foundation  has 
civility.  My  Friend  is  that  one  whom  I  can  associate 
with  my  choicest  thought.  I  always  assign  to  him  a 
nobler  employment  in  my  absence  than  I  ever  find 
liim  engaged  in ;  and  I  imagine  that  the  hours  which  he 
dbvotes  to  me  were  snatched  from  a  higher  society. 
The  sorest  insult  which  I  ever  received  from  a  Friend 
was,  when  he  behaved  with  the  license  which  only  long 
and  cheap  acquaintance  allows  to  one's  faults,  in  my 
presence,  without  shame,  -and  still  addressed  me  in 
friendly  accents.  Beware,  lest  thy  Friend  learn  at  last 
to  tolerate  one  frailty  of  thine,  and  so  an  obstacle  be 
raised  to  the  progress  of  thy  love.  There  are  times 
when  we  have  had  enough  even  of  our  Friends,  when 
we  begin  inevitably  to  profane  one  another,  and  must 
withdraw  religiously  into  softude  and  silence,  the  better 
to  prepare  ourselves  for  a  loftier  intimacy.  Silence  is 
the  ambrosial  night  in  the  intercourse  of  Friends,  in 
which  their  sincerity  is  recruited  and  takes  deeper  root 
Friendship  is  never  established  as  an  understood  re 
lation.  Do  you  demand  that  I  be  less  your  Friend  that 
you  may  know  it?  Yet  what  right  have  I  to  think 
that  another  cherishes  so  rare  a  sentiment  for  me  ?  It 
is  a  miracle  which  requires  constant  proofs.  It  is  an 
exercise  of  the  purest  imagination  and  the  rarest  faith. 
tt  says  by  a  silent  but  eloquent  behavior, — "I  will  be 
so  related  to  thee  as  thou  canst  imagine ;  even  so  thou 
mayest  believe.  I  will  spend  truth,  —  all  my  wealth  on 
thee," — and  the  Friend  responds  silently  through  his 
nature  and  life,  and  treats  his  Friend  with  the  same 


WEDNESDAY,  289 

divine  courtesy.  He  knows  us  literally  through  thick 
and  thin.  He  never  asks  for  a  sign  of  love,  but  can  dis 
tinguish  it  by  the  features  which  it  naturally  wears. 
We  never  need  to  stand  upon  ceremony  with  him  with 
regard  to  his  visits.  Wait  not  till  I  invite  thee,  but 
observe  that  I  am  glad  to  see  thee  when  thou  comest. 
It  would  be  paying  too  dear  for  thy  visit  to  ask  for  it. 
Where  my  Friend  lives  there  are  all  riches  and  every 
attraction,  and  no  slight  obstacle  can  keep  me  from  him. 
Let  me  never  have  to  tell  thee  what  I  have  not  to  tell. 
Let  our  intercourse  be  wholly  above  ourselves,  and  draw 
us  up  to  it. 

The  language  of  Friendship  is  not  words,  but  mean 
ings.  It  is  an  intelligence  above  language.  One  im 
agines  endless  conversations  with  his  Friend,  in  which 
the  tongue  shall  be  loosed,  and  thoughts  be  spoken  with 
out  hesitancy  or  end ;  but  the  experience  is  commonly 
far  otherwise.  Acquaintances  may  come  and  go,  and 
have  a  word  ready  for  every  occasion  ;  but  what  puny 
word  shall  he  utter  whose  very  breath  is  thought  and 
meaning?  Suppose  you  go  to  bid  farewell  to  your 
Friend  who  is  setting  out  on  a  journey  ;  what  other 
outward  sign  do  you  know  than  to  shake  his  hand  ? 
Have  you  any  palaver  ready  for  him  then  ?  any  box  of 
salve  to  commit  to  his  pocket  ?  any  particular  message 
to  send  by  him  ?  any  statement  which  you  had  forgotten 
to  make  ? —  as  If  you  could  forget  anything.  —  No,  it  is 
much  that  you  take  his  hand  and  say  Farewell ;  that 
you  could  easily  omit ;  so  far  custom  has  prevailed.  It 
is  even  painful,  if  he  is  to  go,  that  he  should  linger  so 
long.  If  he  must  go,  let  him  go  quickly.  Have  you 
any  last  words?  Alas,  it  is  o.ily  the  word  of  words, 
which  you  have  so  long  sought  and  found  not ;  you  have 
13  « 


290  A    WEEK. 

not  a  first  word  yet.  There  are  few  even  whom  1 
should  venture  to  call  earnestly  by  their  most  proper 
names.  A  name  pronounced  is  the  recognition  of  the 
individual  to  whom  it  belongs.  He  who  can  pronounce 
my  name  aright,  he  can  call  me,  and  is  entitled  to  my 
love  and  service.  Yet  reserve  is  the  freedom  and  aban 
donment  of  lovers.  It  is  the  reserve  of  what  is  hostile 
or  indifferent  in  their  natures,  to  give  place  to  what  is 
kindred  and  harmonious. 

The  violence  of  love  is  as  much  to  be  dreaded  as  that 
of  hate.  When  it  is  durable  it  is  serene  and  equable. 
Even  its  famous  pains  begin  only  with  the  ebb  of  love, 
for  few  are  indeed  lovers,  though  all  would  fain  be.  It 
is  one  proof  of  a  man's  fitness  for  Friendship  that  he  is 
able  to  do  without  that  which  is  cheap  and  passionate. 
A  true  Friendship  is  as  wise  as  it  is  tender.  The  par 
ties  to  it  yield  implicitly  to  the  guidance  of  their  love, 
and  know  no  other  law  nor  kindness.  It  is  not  extrav 
agant  and  insane,  but  what  it  says  is  something  estab 
lished  henceforth,  and  will  bear  to  be  stereotyped.  It  is 
a  truer  truth,  it  is  better  and  fairer  news,  and  no  time 
will  ever  shame  it,  or  prove  it  false.  This  is  a  plant 
which  thrives  best  in  a  temperate  zone,  where  summer 
and  winter  alternate  with  one  another.  The  Friend  is 
a  necessarius,  and  meets  his  Friend  on  homely  ground ; 
not  on  carpets  and  cushions,  but  on  the  ground  and  on 
rocks  they  will  sit,  obeying  the  natural  and  primitive 
laws.  They  will  meet  without  any  outcry,  and  j»art 
without  loud  sorrow.  Their  relation  implies  such  quali 
ties  as  the  warrior  prizes  ;  for  it  takes  a  valor  to  open 
the  hearts  of  men  as  well  as  the  gates  of  castles.  It  if 
not  an  idle  sympathy  and  mutual  consolation  merely,  bu* 
a  heroic  sympathy  of  aspiration  and  endeavor. 


WEDNESDAY.  291 

tt  When  manhood  shall  be  matched  so 

That  fear  can  take  no  place, 
Then  weary  works  make  warriors 
Each  other  to  embrace." 

The  Friendship  which  Wawatam  testified  for  Henry 
the  fur-trader,  as  described  in  the  latter's  "  Adventures," 
so  almost  bare  and  leafless,  yet  not  blossomless  nor  fruit 
less,  is  remembered  with  satisfaction  and  security.  The 
stern,  imperturbable  warrior,  after  fasting,  solitude,  and 
mortification  of  body,  comes  to  the  white  man's  lodge, 
and  affirms  that  he  is  the  white  brother  whom  he  saw  in 
his  dream,  and  adopts  him  henceforth.  He  buries  the 
hatchet  as  it  regards  his  friend,  and  they  hunt  and  feast 
and  make  maple-sugar  together.  "  Metals  unite  from 
fluxility  ;  birds  and  beasts  from  motives  of  convenience  ; 
fools  from  fear  and  stupidity  ;  and  just  men  at  sight." 
If  Wawatam  would  taste  the  "white  man's  milk"  with 
his  tribe,  or  take  his  bowl  of  human  broth  made  of  the 
trader's  fellow-countrymen,  he  first  finds  a  place  of  safe 
ty  for  his  Friend,  whom  he  has  rescued  from  a  similar 
fate.  At  length,  after  a  long  winter  of  undisturbed  and 
happy  intercourse  in  the  family  of  the  chieftain  in  the 
wilderness,  hunting  and  fishing,  they  return  in  the 
spring  to  Michilimackinac  to  dispose  of  their  furs ;  and 
it  becomes  necessary  for  Wawatam  to  take  leave  of  his 
Friend  at  the  Isle  aux  Outardes,  when  the  latter,  to 
avoid  his  enemies,  proceeded  to  the  Sault  de  Sainte 
Marie,  supposing  that  they  were  to  be  separated  for  a 
short  time  only.  "  We  now  exchanged  farewells,"  saya 
Henry,  "  with  an  emotion  entirely  reciprocal.  I  did  not 
quit  the  lodge  without  the  most  grateful  sense  of  the 
many  acts  of  goodness  which  I  had  experienced  in  it, 
nor  without  the  sincerest  respect  for  the  virtues  which  I 


292  A    WEKK. 

had  witnessed  among  its  members.  All  the  family  ac 
companied  me  to  the  beach ;  and  the  canoe  had  no 
sooner  put  off  than  Wawatam  commenced  an  address  to 
the  Kichi  Manito,  beseeching  him  to  take  care  of  me, 
his  brother,  till  we  should  next  meet.  We  had  pro 
ceeded  to  too  great  a  distance  to  allow  of  our  hearing 
his  voice,  before  Wawatam  had  ceased  to  offer  up  his 
prayers."  We  never  hear  of  him  again. 

Friendship  is  not  so  kind  as  is  imagined  ;  it  has  not 
much  human  blood  in  it,  but  consists  with  a  certain  dis 
regard  for  men  and  their  erections,  the  Christian  duties 
and  humanities,  while  it  purifies  the  air  like  electricity. 
There  may  be  the  sternest  tragedy  in  the  relation  of  two 
more  than  usually  innocent  and  true  to  their  highest  in 
stincts.  We  may  call  it  an  essentially  heathenish  inter 
course,  free  and  irresponsible  in  its  nature,  and  practis 
ing  all  the  virtues  gratuitously.  It  is  not  the  highest 
sympathy  merely,  but  a  pure  and  lofty  society,  a  frag 
mentary  and  godlike  intercourse  of  ancient  date,  still 
kept  up  at  intervals,  which,  remembering  itself,  does  not 
hesitate  to  disregard  the  humbler  rights  and  duties  of 
humanity.  It  requires  immaculate  and  godlike  qualities 
full-grown,  and  exists  at  all  only  by  condescension  and 
anticipation  of  the  remotest  future.  We  love  nothing 
which  is  merely  good  and  not  fair,  if  such  a  thing  is  pos 
sible.  Nature  puts  some  kind  of  blossom  before  every 
fruit,  not  simply  a  calyx  behind  it.  When  the  Friend 
comes  out  of  his  heathenism  and  superstition,  and  breaks 
his  idols,  being  converted  by  the  precepts  of  a  newer 
testament ;  when  he  forgets  his  mythology,  and  treats 
his  Friend  like  a  Christian,  or  as  he  can  afford ;  theu 
Friendship  ceases  to  be  Friendship,  and  becomes  char 
it  v  ;  that  principle  which  established  the  almshouse  if 


WEDNESDAY.  293 

ROW  beginning  with  its  charity  at  home,  and  establishing 
an  almshouse  and  pauper  relations  there. 

As  for  the  number  which  this  society  admits,  it  is  at 
any  rate  to  be  begun  with  one,  the  noblest  and  greatest 
that  we  know,  and  whether  the  world  will  ever  carry  it 
further,  whether,  as  Chaucer  affirms, 

"  There  be  mo  sterres  in  the  skie  than  a  pair," 
remains  to  be  proved ; 

"  And  certaine  he  is  well  begone 
Among  a  thousand  that  findeth  one." 

We  shall  not  surrender  ourselves  heartily  to  any  while 
we  are  conscious  that  another  is  more  deserving  of  our 
love.  Yet  Friendship  does  not  stand  for  numbers  ;  the 
Friend  does  not  count  his  Friends  on  his  fingers ;  they 
are  not  numerable.  The  more  there  are  included  by 
this  bond,  if  they  are  indeed  included,  the  rarer  and 
diviner  the  quality  of  the  love  that  binds  them.  I  am 
ready  to  believe  that  as  private  and  intimate  a  relation 
may  exist  by  which  three  are  embraced,  as  between  two. 
Indeed,  we  cannot  have  too  many  friends  ;  the  virtue 
which  we  appreciate  we  to  some  extent  appropriate,  so 
that  thus  we  are  made  at  last  more  fit  for  every  relation 
of  life.  A  base  Friendship  is  of  a  narrowing  and  exclu 
sive  tendency,  but  a  noble  one  is  not  exclusive  ;  its  very 
superfluity  and  dispersed  love  is  the  humanity  which 
sweetens  society,  and  sympathizes  with  foreign  nations ; 
for  though  its  foundations  are  private,  it  is,  in  effect,  a 
public  affair  and  a  public  advantage,  and  the  Friend 
more  than  the  father  of  a  family,  deserves  well  of  the 
state. 


294 


A     WKKK. 


The  only  danger  in  Friendship  is  that  i'  will  end.  It 
is  a  delicate  plant,  though  a  native.  The  least  unworthi- 
ness,  even  if  it  be  unknown  to  one's  self,  vitiates  it.  Let 
the  Friend  know  that  those  faults  which  he  observes  in 
his  Friend  his  own  faults  attract.  There  is  no  rule 
more  invariable  than  that  we  are  paid  for  our  suspicions 
by  finding  what  we  suspected.  By  our  narrowness  and 
prejudices  we  say,  I  will  have  so  much  and  such  of  you, 
my  Friend,  no  more.  Perhaps  there  are  none  charita 
ble,  none  disinterested,  none  wise,  noble,  and  heroic 
enough,  for  a  true  and  lasting  Friendship. 

I  sometimes  hear  my  Friends  complain  finely  that  I 
do  not  appreciate  their  fineness.  I  shall  not  tell  them 
whether  I  do  or  not.  As  if  they  expected  a  vote  of 
thanks  for  every  fine  thing  which  they  uttered  or  did. 
Who  knows  but  it  was  finely  appreciated.  It  may  be 
that  your  silence  was  the  finest  thing  of  the  two.  There 
are  some  things  which  a  man  never  speaks  of,  which  are 
much  finer  kept  silent  about.  To  the  highest  communi 
cations  we  only  lend  a  silent  ear.  Our  finest  relations 
are  not  simply  kept  silent  about,  but  buried  under  a  pos 
itive  depth  of  silence  never  to  be  revealed.  It  may  be 
that  we  are  not  even  yet  acquainted.  In  human  inter 
course  the  tragedy  begins,  not  when  there  is  misunder 
standing  about  words,  but  when  silence  is  not  under 
stood.  Then  there  can  never  be  an  explanation.  What 
avails  it  that  another  loves  you,  if  he  does  not  under 
stand  you  ?  Such  love  is  a  curse.  What  sort  of  com 
panions  are  they  who  are  presuming  always  that  their 
silence  is  more  expressive  than  yours  ?  How  foolish, 
and  inconsiderate,  and  unjust,  to  conduct  as  if  you  were 
the  only  party  aggrieved  !  Has  not  your  Friend  always 
equal  ground  of  complaint  ?  No  doubt  my  Friend? 


WEDNESDAY.  295 

pometimes  speak  to  me  in  vain,  but  they  do  not  know 
what  things  I  hear  which  they  are  not  aware  that  they 
have  spoken.  I  know  that  I  have  frequently  disap 
pointed  them  by  not  giving  them  words  when  they  ex 
pected  them,  or  such  as  they  expected.  Whenever  I 
see  my  Friend  I  speak  to  him;  but  the  expecter,  the 
man  with  the  ears,  is  not  he.  They  will  complain  too 
that  you  are  hard.  0  ye  that  would  have  the  cocoa-nut 
wrong  side  outwards,  when  next  I  weep  I  will  let  you 
know.  They  ask  for  words  and  deeds,  when  a  true  re 
lation  is  word  and  deed.  If  they  know  not  of  these 
things,  how  can  they  be  informed  ?  We  often  forbear 
to  confess  our  feelings,  not  from  pride,  but  for  fear  that 
we  could  not  continue  to  love  the  one  who  required  us 
to  give  such  proof  of  our  affection. 

I  know  a  woman  who  possesses  a  restless  and  intelli 
gent  mind,  interested  in  her  own  culture,  and  earnest  tc 
enjoy  the  highest  possible  advantages,  and  I  meet  her 
with  pleasure  as  a  natural  person  who  not  a  little  pro 
vokes  me,  and  I  suppose  is  stimulated  in  turn  by  myself. 
Yet  our  acquaintance  plainly  does  not  attain  to  that  de 
gree  of  confidence  and  sentiment  which  women,  which 
all,  in  fact,  covet.  I  am  glad  to  help  her,  as  I  am  helped 
by  her;  I  like  very  well  to  know  her  with  a  sort  of 
Btranger's  privilege,  and  hesitate  to  visit  her  often,  like 
her  other  Friends.  My  nature  pauses  here,  I  do  not 
well  know  why.  Perhaps  she  does  not  make  the  high 
est  demand  on  me,  a  religious  demand.  Some,  with 
whose  prejudices  or  peculiar  bias  I  have  no  sympathy, 
yet  inspire  me  with  confidence,  and  I  trust  that  they 
confide  in  me  also  as  a  religious  heathen  at  least,  —  a 
good  Greek.  I,  too,  have  principles  as  well  founded  as 


296  A    WEEK. 

their  own  If  this  person  could  conceive  that,  without 
wilfulness,  I  associate  with  her  as  far  as  our  destinies 
are  coincident,  as  far  as  our  Good  Geniuses  permit,  and 
still  value  such  intercourse,  it  would  be  a  grateful  assur 
ance  to  me.  I  feel  as  if  I  appeared  careless,  indifferent, 
and  without  principle  to  her,  not  expecting  more,  and 
yet  not  content  with  less.  If  she  could  know  that  I 
make  an  infinite  demand  on  myself,  as  well  as  on  all 
others,  she  would  see  that  this  true  though  incomplete 
intercourse,  is  infinitely  better  than  a  more  unreserved 
but  falsely  grounded  one,  without  the  principle  of  growth 
in  it.  For  a  companion,  I  require  one  who  will  make 
an  equal  demand  on  me  with  my  own  genius.  Such  a 
one  will  always  be  rightly  tolerant.  It  is  suicide,  and 
corrupts  good  manners  to  welcome  any  less  than  this. 
I  value  and  trust  those  who  love  and  praise  my  aspira 
tion  rather  than  my  performance.  If  you  would  not 
stop  to  look  at  me,  but  look  whither  I  am  looking,  and 
farther,  then  my  education  could  not  dispense  with  you? 
company. 

My  love  must  be  as  free 

As  is  the  eagle's  wing, 
Hovering  o'er  land  and  sea 

And  everything. 

I  must  not  dim  my  eye 

In  thy  saloon, 
I  must  not  leave  my  sky 

And  nightly  moon. 

Be  not  the  fowler's  net 

Which  stays  my  flight, 
And  craftily  is  set 

T  allure  the  sight. 

But  be  the  favoring  gale 
That  bears  me  on, 


WEDNKSDAT.  297 

And  still  doth  fill  my  sail 
When  thou  art  gone. 

I  cannot  leave  my  sky 

For  thy  caprice, 
True  love  would  soar  as  high 

As  heaven  is. 

The  eagle  would  not  brook 

Her  mate  thus  won, 

.  Who  trained  his  eye  to  look 

Beneath  the  sun. 

Few  things  are  more  difficult  than  to  help  a  Friend 
in  matters  which  do  not  require  the  aid  of  Friendship, 
but  only  a  cheap  and  trivial  service,  if  your  Friendship 
wants  the  basis  of  a  thorough  practical  acquaintance. 
I  stand  in  the  friendliest  relation,  on  social  and  spiritual 
grounds,  to  one  who  does  not  perceive  what  practical  skill 
I  have,  but  when  he  seeks  my  assistance  in  such  matters, 
is  wholly  ignorant  of  that  one  with  whom  he  deals  ;  does 
not  use  my  skill,  which  in  such  matters  is  much  greater 
than  his,  but  only  my  hands.  I  know  another,  who,  on 
the  contrary,  is  remarkable  for  his  discrimination  in  this 
respect ;  who  knows  how  to  make  use  of  the  talents  of 
others  when  he  does  not  possess  the  same ;  knows  when 
not  to  look  after  or  oversee,  and  stops  short  at  his  man. 
It  is  a  rare  pleasure  to  serve  him,  which  all  laborers 
know.  I  am  not  a  little  pained  by  the  other  kind  of 
treatment.  It  is  as  if,  after  the  friendliest  and  most  en 
nobling  intercourse,  your  Friend  should  use  you  as  a 
hammer,  and  drive  a  nail  with  your  head,  all  in  good 
faith  ;  notwithstanding  that  you  are  a  tolerable  carpen 
ter,  as  well  as  his  good  Friend,  and  would  use  a  hammer 
heerfully  in  his  service.  This  want  of  perception  is  a 
iefect  which  all  the  virtues  of  the  heart  cannot  sup 
ply:— 

13  « 


298  A    WEEK. 

The  Good  how  can  we  trust? 

Only  the  Wise  are  just. 

The  Good  we  use. 

The  Wise  we  cannot  choose. 

These  there  are  none  above  ; 

The  Good  they  know  and  love, 

But  are  not  known  again 

By  those  of  lesser  ken. 

They  do  not  charm  us  with  their  eyes, 

But  they  transfix  with  their  advice; 

No  partial  sympathy  they  feel, 

With  private  woe  or  private  weal, 

But  with  the  universe  joy  and  sigh, 

Whose  knowledge  is  their  sympathy. 

Confucius  said  :  "  To  contract  ties  of  Friendship  with 
any  one,  is  to  contract  Friendship  with  his  virtue. 
There  ought  not  to  be  any  other  motive  in  Friendship." 
But  men  wish  us  to  contract  Friendship  with  their  vice 
also.  I  have  a  Friend  who  wishes  me  to  see  that  to  be 
right  which  I  know  to  be  wrong.  But  if  Friendship  is 
to  rob  me  of  my  eyes,  if  it  is  to  darken  the  day,  I  will 
have  none  of  it.  It  should  be  expansive  and  inconceiv 
ably  liberalizing  in  its  effects.  True  Friendship  can  af 
ford  true  knowledge.  It  does  not  depend  on  darkness 
and  ignorance.  A  want  of  discernment  cannot  be  an 
ingredient  in  it.  If  I  can  see  my  Friend's  virtues  more 
distinctly  than  another's,  his  faults  too  are  made  more 
conspicuous  by  contrast.  We  have  not  so  good  a  right 
to  hate  any  as  our  Friend.  Faults  are  not  the  less  faults 
because  they  are  invariably  balanced  by  corresponding 
virtues,  and  for  a  fault  there  is  no  excuse,  though  it  may 
appear  greater  than  it  is  in  many  ways.  I  have  never 
known  one  who  could  bear  criticism,  who  could  not  be 
flattered,  who  would  not  bribe  his  judge,  or  was  contenf 
that  the  truth  should  be  loved  always  better  than  him 
self. 


WEDNESDAY.  299 

If  two  travellers  would  go  their  way  harmoniously  to 
gether,  the  one  must  take  as  true  and  just  a  view  of 
things  as  the  other,  else  their  path  will  not  be  strewn 
with  roses.  Yet  you  can  travel  profitably  and  pleas 
antly  even  with  a  blind  man,  if  he  practises  common 
courtesy,  and  when  you  converse  about  the  scenery  will 
remember  that  he  is  blind  but  that  you  can  see;  and 
you  will  not  forget  that  his  sense  of  hearing  is  probably 
quickened  by  his  want  of  sight.  Otherwise  you  will 
not  long  keep  company.  A  blind  man,  and  a  man  in 
whose  eyes  there  was  no  defect,  were  walking  together, 
when  they  came  to  the  edge  of  a  precipice.  "  Take 
care  !  my  friend,"  said  the  latter,  "  here  is  a  steep  pre 
cipice  ;  go  no  farther  this  way."  —  "I  know  better," 
said  the  other,  and  stepped  off. 

It  is  impossible  to  say  all  that  we  think,  even  to  our 
truest  Friend.  We  may  bid  him  farewell  forever  soon 
er  than  complain,  for  our  complaint  is  too  well  grounded 
to  be  uttered.  There  is  not  so  good  an  understanding 
between  any  two,  but  the  exposure  by  the  one  of  a  se 
rious  fault  in  the  other  will  produce  a  misunderstanding  in 
proportion  to  its  heinousness.  The  constitutional  differ 
ences  which  always  exist,  and  are  obstacles  to  a  perfect 
Friendship,  are  forever  a  forbidden  theme  to  the  lips  of 
Friends.  They  advise  by  their  whole  behavior.  Noth 
ing  can  reconcile  them  but  love.  They  are  fatally  late 
when  they  undertake  to  explain  and  treat  with  one 
another  like  foes.  Who  will  take  an  apology  for  a 
Friend  ?  They  must  apologize  like  dew  and  frost,  which 
ure  off  again  with  the  sun,  and  which  all  men  know  in 
their  hearts  to  be  beneficent.  The  necessity  itself  for 
explanation,  —  what  explanation  will  atone  for  that  ? 

True  love  does  not  quarrel  for  slight   reasons,  such 


300  A    WEEK. 

mistakes  as  mutual  acquaintances  can  explain  away,  but, 
alas,  however  slight  the  apparent  cause,  only  for  ade 
quate  and  fatal  and  everlasting  reasons,  which  can  never 
be  set  aside.  Its  quarrel,  if  there  is  any,  is  ever  recur 
ring,  notwithstanding  the  beams  of  affection  which  inva 
riably  come  to  gild  its  tears  ;  as  the  rainbow,  however 
beautiful  and  unerring  a  sign,  does  not  promise  fair 
weather  forever,  but  only  for  a  season.  I  have  known 
two  or  three  persons  pretty  well,  and  yet  I  have  never 
known  advice  to  be  of  use  but  in  trivial  and  transient 
matters.  One  may  know  what  another  does  not,  but  the 
utmost  kindness  cannot  impart  what  is  requisite  to  make 
the  advice  useful.  We  must  accept  or  refuse  one  another 
as  we  are.  I  could  tame  a  hyena  more  easily  than  my 
Friend.  He  is  a  material  which  no  tool  of  mine  will 
work.  A  naked  savage  will  fell  an  oak  with  a  firebrand, 
and  wear  a  hatchet  out  of  a  rock  by  friction,  but  I  can 
not  hew  the  smallest  chip  out  of  the  character  of  my 
Friend,  either  to  beautify  or  deform  it. 

The  lover  learns  at  last  that  there  is  no  person  quite 
transparent  and  trustworthy,  but  every  one  has  a  devil 
in  him  that  is  capable  of  any  crime  in  the  long  run.  Yet, 
as  an  Oriental  philosopher  has  said,  "  Although  Friend 
ship  between  good  men  is  interrupted,  their  principles 
remain  unaltered.  The  stalk  of  the  lotus  may  be  broken, 
und  the  fibres  remain  connected." 

Ignorance  and  bungling  with  love  are  better  than  wis 
dom  and  skill  without.  There  may  be  courtesy,  there 
may  be  even  temper,  and  wit,  and  talent,  and  sparkling 
conversation,  there  may  be  good-will  even,  —  and  yet  the 
humanest  and  divinest  faculties  pine  for  exercise.  Our 
life  without  love  is  like  coke  and  ashes.  Men  may  be 


WEDNESDAY.  801 

pure  as  alabaster  and  Parian  marble,  elegant  as  a  Tus 
can  villa,  sublime  as  Niagara,  and  yet  if  there  is  no  milk 
mingled  with  the  wine  at  their  entertainments,  better  is 
the  hospitality  of  Goths  and  Vandals. 

My  Friend  is  not  of  some  other  race  or  family  of  men, 
but  flesh  of  my  flesh,  bone  of  my  bone.  He  is  my  real 
brother.  I  see  his  nature  groping  yonder  so  like  mine. 
We  do  not  live  far  apart.  Have  not  the  fates  associated 
us  in  many  ways?  It  says,  in  the  Vishnu  Purana: 
"  Seven  paces  together  is  sufficient  for  the  friendship  of 
the  virtuous,  but  thou  and  I  have  dwelt  together."  Is  it 
of  no  significance  that  we  have  so  long  partaken  of  the 
same  loaf,  drank  at  the  same  fountain,  breathed  the  same 
air  summer  and  winter,  felt  the  same  heat  and  cold; 
that  the  same  fruits  have  been  pleased  to  refresh  us 
both,  and  we  have  never  had  a  thought  of  different  fibre 
the  one  from  the  other ! 

Nature  doth  have  tier  dawn  each  day, 

But  mine  are  far  between  ; 
Content,  1  cry,  for  sooth  to  say, 

Mine  brightest  are  I  ween. 

For  when  my  sun  doth  deign  to  rise, 

Though  it  be  her  noontide, 
Her  fairest  field  in  shadow  lies 

Nor  can  my  light  abide. 

Sometimes  I  bask  me  in  her  day, 

Conversing  with  my  mate, 
But  if  we  interchange  one  ray, 

Forthwith  her  heats  abate. 

Through  his  discourse  I  climb  and  se« 

As  from  some  eastern  hill, 
A  brighter  morrow  rise  to  me 

Than  lieth  in  her  skilL 

As  't  were  two  summer  days  in  one, 

Two  Sundays  come  together, 
Our  rays  united  make  one  suu, 

With  fairest  summer  weather. 


302  A    WEEK. 

As  surely  as  the  sunset  in  my  latest  November  shall 
translate  me  to  the  ethereal  world,  and  remind  me  of  the 
ruddy  morning  of  youth ;  as  surely  as  the  last  strain  of 
music  which  falls  on  my  decaying  ear  shall  make  age  to 
be  forgotten,  or,  in  short,  the  manifold  influences  of  na 
ture  survive  during  the  term  of  our  natural  life,  so  sure 
ly  my  Friend  shall  forever  be  my  Friend,  and  reflect  a 
ray  of  God  to  me,  and  time  shall  foster  and  adorn  and 
consecrate  our  Friendship,  no  less  than  the  ruins  of  tem 
ples.  As  I  love  nature,  as  I  love  singing  birds,  and 
gleaming  stubble,  and  flowing  rivers,  and  morning  and 
evening,  and  summer  and  winter,  I  love  thee,  my 
Friend. 

But  all  that  can  be  said  of  Friendship,  is  like  botany 
to  flowers.  How  can  the  understanding  take  account  of 
its  friendliness? 

Even  the  death  of  Friends  will  inspire  us  as  much  as 
their  lives.  They  will  leave  consolation  to  the  mourn 
ers,  as  the  rich  leave  money  to  defray  the  expenses  of 
their  funerals,  and  their  memories  will  be  incrusted  over 
with  sublime  and  pleasing  thoughts,  as  monuments  of 
other  men  are  overgrown  with  moss;  for  our  Friends 
have  no  place  in  the  graveyard. 

This  to  our  cis- Alpine  and  cis-Atlantic  Friends. 

Also  this  other  word  of  entreaty  and  advice  to  the 
large  and  respectable  nation  of  Acquaintances,  beyond 
the  mountains  ;  —  Greeting. 

My  most  serene  and  irresponsible  neighbors,  let  us  see 
that  we  have  the  whole  advantage  of  each  other;  we 
will  be  useful,  at  least,  if  not  admirable,  to  one  another 
t  know  that  the  mountains  which  separate  us  are  high, 


WEDNESDAY.  303 

and  covered  with  perpetual  snow,  but  despair  not.  Im 
prove  the  serene  winter  weather  to  scale  them.  If  need 
be,  soften  the  rocks  with  vinegar.  For  here  lie  the  ver 
dant  plains  ot  Italy  ready  to  receive  you.  Nor  shall  I 
be  slow  on  my  side  to  penetrate  to  your  Provence. 
Strike  then  boldly  at  head  or  heart  or  any  vital  part. 
Depend  upon  it,  the  timber  is  well  seasoned  and  tough, 
and  will  bear  rough  usage  ;  and  if  it  should  crack,  there 
is  plenty  more  where  it  came  from.  I  am  no  piece  of 
crockery  that  cannot  be  jostled  against  my  neighbor  with 
out  danger  of  being  broken  by  the  collision,  and  must 
needs  ring  false  and  jarringly  to  the  ead  of  my  days, 
when  once  I  am  cracked ;  but  rather  one  of  the  old-fash 
ioned  wooden  trenchers,  which  one  while  stands  at  the 
head  of  the  table,  and  at  another  is  a  milking-stool,  and 
at  another  a  seat  for  children,  and  final'.y  goes  down  to 
its  grave  not  unadorned  with  honorable  scars,  and  does 
not  die  till  it  is  worn  out.  Nothing  can  shock  a  brave 
man  but  dulness.  Think  how  many  rebuffs  every  man 
has  experienced  in  his  day ;  perhaps  has  fallen  into  a 
horse-pond,  eaten  fresh-water  clams,  or  worn  one  shirt 
for  a  week  without  washing.  Indeed,  you  cannot  receive 
a  shock  unless  you  have  an  electric  affinity  for  that 
which  shocks  you.  Use  me,  then,  for  I  am  useful  in  my 
way,  and  stand  as  one  of  many  petitioners,  from  toad 
stool  and  henbane  up  to  dahlia  and  violet,  supplicating 
to  be  put  to  my  use,  if  by  any  means  ye  may  find  me 
serviceable ;  whether  for  a  medicated  drink  or  bath,  as 
balm  and  lavender ;  or  for  fragrance,  as  verbena  and 
geranium  ;  or  for  sight,  as  cactus ;  or  for  thoughts,  as 
pansy.  These  humbler,  at  least,  if  not  those  higher 
uses. 

Ah,  my  dear  Strangers  and  Enemies,  I  would  not  for- 


804  A    WEEK. 

get  you.  I  can  well  afford  to  welcome  you.  Let  me 
subscribe  myself  Yours  ever  and  truly,  —  your  much 
obliged  servant.  We  have  nothing  to  fear  from  our 
foes  ;  God  keeps  a  standing  army  for  that  service ;  but 
we  have  no  ally  against  our  Friends,  those  ruthless 
Vandals. 

Once  more  to  one  and  all, 

"  Friends,  Bomana,  Countrymen,  and  I/oven." 

Let  such  pure  hate  still  underprop 
Our  love,  that  we  may  be 
Each  other's  conscience. 
And  have  our  sympathy 
Mainly  from  thence. 

We  Ml  one  another  treat  like  gods. 
And  all  the  faith  we  have 
In  virtue  and  in  truth,  bestow 
On  either,  and  suspicion  leave 
To  gods  below. 

Two  solitary  stars,  — 
Unmeasured  systems  far 
Between  us  roll, 

But  by  our  conscious  light  we  arc 
Determined  to  one  pole. 

What  need  confound  the  sphere,  — 

Love  can  afford  to  wait, 

For  it  no  hour  's  too  late 

That  witnesseth  one  duty's  end, 

Or  to  another  doth  beginning  lend. 

It  will  subserve  no  use, 
More  than  the  tints  of  flowers, 
Only  the  independent  guest 
Frequents  its  bowers, 
Inherits  its  bequest. 

No  speech  though  kind  ha§  it, 
But  kinder  silence  dole* 


WEDNESDAY.  805 

Unto  its  mates, 
By  night  consoles, 
By  day  congratulates. 

What  saith  the  tongue  to  tongue? 
What  heareth  ear  of  ear? 
By  the  decrees  of  fate 
From  year  to  year, 
Does  it  communicate. 

Pathless  the  gulf  of  feeling  yawns,  — 
No  trivial  bridge  of  words, 
Or  arch  of  boldest  span, 
Can  leap  the  moat  that  girds 
The  sincere  man. 

No  show  of  bolts  and  bars 
Can  keep  the  foeman  out, 
Or  'scape  his  secret  mine 
Who  entered  with  the  doubt 
That  drew  the  line. 

No  warder  at  the  gate 
Can  let  the  friendly  in, 
But,  like  the  sun,  o'er  all 
He  will  the  castle  win, 
And  shine  along  the  wall. 

There  's  nothing  in  the  world  I  know 
That  can  escape  from  love, 
For  every  depth  it  goes  below, 
Aiid  every  height  above. 

It  waits  as  waits  the  sky, 
Until  the  clouds  go  by, 
Yet  shines  serenely  on 
With  an  eternal  day, 
Alike  when  they  are  gone, 
And  when  they  stay. 

Implacable  is  Love,  — 
Foes  may  be  bought  or  teased 
From  their  hostile  intent, 
But  he  goes  unappeased 
Who  is  on  kindness  bent. 


30C  A    WEEK. 

Having  rowed  five  or  six  miles  above  Amoskeag  be 
fore  sunset,  and  reached  a  pleasant  part  of  the  river,  one 
of  us  landed  to  look  for  a  farm-house,  where  we  might 
replenish  our  stores,  while  the  other  remained  cruising 
about  the  stream,  and  exploring  the  opposite  shores  to 
find  a  suitable  harbor  for  the  night.  In  the  mean  while 
the  canal-boats  began  to  come  round  a  point  in  our  rear, 
poling  their  way  along  close  to  the  shore,  the  breeze 
having  quite  died  away.  This  time  there  was  no  offer 
of  assistance,  but  one  of  the  boatmen  only  called  out  to 
say,  as  the  truest  revenge  for  having  been  the  losers  in 
the  race,  that  he  had  seen  a  wood-duck,  which  we  had 
scared  up,  sitting  on  a  tall  white-pine,  half  a  mile  down 
stream ;  and  he  repeated  the  assertion  several  times,  and 
seemed  really  chagrined  at  the  apparent  suspicion  with 
which  this  information  was  received.  But  there  sat  the 
summer  duck  still,  undisturbed  by  us. 

By  and  by  the  other  voyageur  returned  from  his  inland 
expedition,  bringing  one  of  the  natives  with  him,  a  little 
flaxen-headed  boy,  with  some  tradition,  or  small  edition, 
of  Robinson  Crusoe  in  his  head,  who  had  been  charmed 
by  the  account  of  our  adventures,  and  asked  his  father's 
leave  to  join  us.  He  examined,  at  first  from  the  top  of 
the  bank,  our  boat  and  furniture,  with  sparkling  eyes, 
and  wished  himself  already  his  own  man.  He  was  a 
lively  and  interesting  boy,  and  we  should  have  been 
glad  to  ship  him  ;  but  Nathan  was  still  his  father's  boy, 
and  had  not  come  to  years  of  discretion. 

We  had  got  a  loaf  of  home-made  bread,  and  musk 
and  water  melons  for  dessert.  For  this  farmer,  a  clever 
and  well-disposed  man,  cultivated  a  large  patch  of  mel 
ons  for  the  Hooksett  and  Concord  markets.  He  hospit 
ably  entertained  us  the  next  day,  exhibiting  his  hop 


WEDNESDAY.  307 

fields  and  kiln  and  melon-patch,  warning  us  to  step  over 
the  tight  rope  which  surrounded  the  latter  at  a  foot  from 
the  ground,  while  he  pointed  to  a  little  bower  at  one 
corner,  where  it  connected  with  the  lock  of  a  gun  rang 
ing  with  the  line,  and  where,  as  he  informed  us,  he 
(sometimes  sat  in  pleasant  nights  to  defend  his  premises 
against  thieves.  We  stepped  high  over  the  line,  and 
sympathized  with  our  host's  on  the  whole  quite  human, 
if  not  humane,  interest  in  the  success  or  his  experiment. 
That  night  especially  thieves  were  to  be  expected,  from 
rumors  in  the  atmosphere,  and  the  priming  was  not  wet. 
He  was  a  Methodist  man,  who  had  his  dwelling  between 
the  river  and  Uncannunuc  Mountain  ;  who  there  be 
longed,  and  stayed  at  home  there,  and  by  the  encourage 
ment  of  distant  political  organizations,  and  by  his  own 
tenacity,  held  a  property  in  his  melons,  and  continued 
to  plant.  We  suggested  melon-seeds  of  new  varieties 
and  fruit  of  foreign  flavor  to  be  added  to  his  stock.  We 
had  come  away  up  here  among  the  hills  to  learn  the  im 
partial  and  unbribable  beneficence  of  Nature.  Straw 
berries  and  melons  grow  as  well  in  one  man's  garden  as 
another's,  and  the  sun  lodges  as  kindly  under  his  hill 
side,  —  when  we  had  imagined  that  she  inclined  rather 
to  some  few  earnest  and  faithful  souls  whom  we  know. 

We  found  a  convenient  harbor  for  our  boat  on  the  op 
posite  or  east  shore,  still  in  Hooksett,  at  the  mouth  of  a 
small  brook  which  emptied  into  the  Merrimack,  where 
it  would  be  out  of  the  way  of  any  passing  boat  in  the 
night  —  for  they  commonly  hug  the  shore  if  bound  up 
stream,  either  to  avoid  the  current,  or  touch  the  bottom 
with  their  poles,  —  and  where  it  would  be  accessible 
without  stepping  on  the  clayey  shore.  We  set  one  of 
our  largest  melons  to  cool  in  the  still  water  among  the 


308  A    WEEK. 

alders  at  the  mouth  of  this  creek,  but  when  our  tent  was 
pitched  and  ready,  and  we  went  to  get  it,  it  had  floated 
oui  into  the  stream,  and  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  So 
taking  the  boat  in  the  twilight,  we  went  in  pursuit  of 
this  property,  and  at  length,  after  long  straining  of  the 
eyes,  its  green  disk  was  discovered  far  down  the  river, 
gently  floating  seaward  with  many  twigs  and  leaves  from 
the  mountains  that  evening,  and  so  perfectly  balanced 
that  it  had  not  keeled  at  all,  and  no  water  had  run  in  at 
the  tap  which  had  been  taken  out  to  hasten  its  cooling. 

As  we  sat  on  the  bank  eating  our  supper,  the  clear 
light  of  the  western  sky  fell  on  the  eastern  trees,  and 
was  reflected  in  the  water,  and  we  enjoyed  so  serene  an 
evening  as  left  nothing  to  describe.  For  the  most  part 
we  think  that  there  are  few  degrees  of  sublimity,  and 
that  the  highest  is  but  little  higher  than  that  which  we 
now  behold  ;  but  we  are  always  deceived.  Sublimer 
visions  appear,  and  the  former  pale  and  fade  away. 
We  are  grateful  when  we  are  reminded  by  interior  evi 
dence  of  the  permanence  of  universal  laws  ;  for  our  faith 
is  but  faintly  remembered,  indeed,  is  not  a  remembered 
assurance,  but  a  use  and  enjoyment  of  knowledge.  It 
is  when  we  do  not  have  to  believe,  but  come  into  actual 
contact  with  Truth,  and  are  related  to  her  in  the  most 
direct  and  intimate  way.  Waves  of  serener  life  pass 
over  us  from  time  to  time,  like  flakes  of  sunlight  over 
the  fields  in  cloudy  weather.  In  some  happier  moment, 
when  more  sap  flows  in  the  withered  stalk  of  our  life, 
Syria  and  India  stretch  away  from  our  present  as  they 
do  in  history.  All  the  events  which  make  the  annals 
of  the  nations  are  but  the  shadows  of  our  private  expe 
riences.  Suddenly  and  silently  the  eras  which  we  call 
history  awake  and  glimmer  in  us,  and  there  is  room  for 


WEDNESDAY.  309 

Alexander  and  Hannibal  to  march  and  conquer.  In 
short,  the  history  which  we  read  is  only  a  fainter  mem 
ory  of  events  which  have  happened  in  our  own  experi 
ence.  Tradition  is  a  more  interrupted  and  feebler 
memory. 

This  world  is  but  canvas  to  our  imaginations.  I 
see  men  with  infinite  pains  endeavoring  to  realize  to 
their  bodies,  what  I,  with  at  least  equal  pains,  would 
realize  to  my  imagination,  —  its  capacities  ;  for  certainly 
there  is  a  life  of  the  mind  above  the  wants  of  the  body, 
and  independent  of  it.  Often  the  body  is  warmed,  but 
the  imagination  is  torpid  ;  the  body  is  fat,  but  the  imagi 
nation  is  lean  and  shrunk.  But  what  avails  all  other 
wealth  if  this  is  wanting  ?  "  Imagination  is  the  air  of 
mind,"  in  which  it  lives  and  breathes.  All  things  are  as 
I  am.  Where  is  the  House  of  Change  ?  The  past  is 
only  so  heroic  as  we  see  it.  It  is  the  canvas  on  which 
our  idea  of  heroism  is  painted,  and  so,  in  one  sense,  the 
dim  prospectus  of  our  future  field.  Our  circumstances 
answer  to  our  expectations  and  the  demand  of  our  na 
tures.  I  have  noticed  that  if  a  man  thinks  that  he  needs 
a  thousand  dollars,  and  cannot  be  convinced  that  he  does 
not,  he  will  commonly  be  found  to  have  them  ;  if  he 
lives  and  thinks  a  thousand  dollars  will  be  forthcoming, 
though  it  be  to  buy  shoe-strings  with.  A  thousand  mills 
will  be  just  as  slow  to  come  to  one  who  finds  it  equally 
hard  to  convince  himself  that  he  needs  them. 

Men  are  by  birth  equal  in  this,  that  given 
Themselves  and  their  condition,  they  are  even. 

I  am  astonished  at  the  singular  pertinacity  and  endur 
ance  of  our  lives.  The  miracle  is,  that  what  is  is,  when 
it  ie  so  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  for  anything  else  to 


310  A    WEEK. 

be ;  that  we  walk  on  in  our  particular  paths  so  far,  bo- 
fore  we  fall  on  death  and  fate,  merely  because  we  must 
walk  in  some  path ;  that  every  man  can  get  a  living,  and 
so  few  can  do  anything  more.  So  much  only  can  I  ac 
complish  ere  health  and  strength  are  gone,  and  yet  this 
Buffices.  The  bird  now  sits  just  out  of  gunshot.  I  am 
never  rich  in  money,  and  I  am  never  meanly  poor.  If 
debts  are  incurred,  why,  debts  are  in  the  course  of  events 
cancelled,  as  it  were  by  the  same  law  by  which  they 
were  incurred.  I  heard  that  an  engagement  was  entered 
into  between  a  certain  youth  and  a  maiden,  and  then  I 
heard  that  it  was  broken  off,  but  I  did  not  know  the 
reason  in  either  case.  We  are  hedged  about,  we  think, 
by  accident  and  circumstance,  now  we  creep  as  in  a 
dream,  and  now  again  we  run,  as  if  there  were  a  fate  in 
it,  and  all  things  thwarted  or  assisted.  I  cannot  change 
my  clothes  but  when  I  do,  and  yet  I  do  change  them, 
and  soil  the  new  ones.  It  is  wonderful  that  this  gets 
done,  when  some  admirable  deeds  which  I  could  men 
tion  do  not  get  done.  Our  particular  lives  seem  of  such 
fortune  and  confident  strength  and  durability  as  piers 
of  solid  rock  thrown  forward  into  the  tide  of  circum 
stance.  When  every  other  path  would  fail,  with  singu 
lar  and  unerring  confidence  we  advance  on  our  particu 
lar  course.  What  risks  we  run !  famine  and  fire  afid 
pestilence,  and  the  thousand  forms  of  a  cruel  fate,  — 
and  yet  every  man  lives  till  he  —  dies.  How  did  he 
manage  that  ?  Is  there  no  immediate  danger  ?  We 
wonder  superfluously  when  we  hear  of  a  somnambulist 
walking  a  plank  securely,  —  we  have  walked  a  plank  all 
our  lives  up  to  this  particular  string-piece  where  we  are 
My  life  will  wait  for  nobody,  but  is  being  matured  stiL 
without  delay,  while  I  go  about  the  streets,  and  chaflfe? 


WEDNESDAY.  311 

with  this  man  and  that  to  secure  it  a  living.  It  is  as 
indifferent  and  easy  meanwhile  as  a  poor  man's  dog,  and 
making  acquaintance  with  its  kind.  It  will  cut  its  own 
channel  like  a  mountain  stream,  and  by  the  longest  ridge 
is  not  kept  from  the  sea  at  last.  I  have  found  all  things 
thus  far,  persons  and  inanimate  matter,  elements  and 
seasons,  strangely  adapted  to  my  resources.  No  matter 
what  imprudent  haste  in  my  career ;  I  am  permitted  to 
be  rash.  Gulfs  are  bridged  in  a  twinkling,  as  if  some 
unseen  baggage-train  carried  pontoons  for  my  conven 
ience,  and  while  from  the  heights  I  scan  the  tempting 
but  unexplored  Pacific  Ocean  of  Futurity,  the  ship  is 
being  carried  over  the  mountains  piecemeal  on  the 
backs  of  mules  and  lamas,  whose  keel  shall  .plough  its 
waves,  and  bear  me  to  the  Indies.  Day  would  not  dawn 
if  it  were  not  for 

THE  INWARD  MORNING. 

Packed  in  my  mind  lie  all  the  clothes 

Which  outward  nature  wears, 
And  iu  its  fashion's  hourly  change 

It  all  things  else  repairs. 

In  vain  I  look  for  change  abroad, 

And  can  no  difference  find, 
Till  some  new  ray  of  peace  uncalled 

Illumes  my  inmost  mind. 

What  is  it  gilds  the  trees  and  clouds, 

And  paints  the  heavens  so  gay, 
But  yonder  fast-abiding  light 

With  its  unchanging  ray  V 

Lo,  when  the  sun  streams  tnrough  the  wood, 

Upon  a  winter's  morn, 
Where'er  his  silent  beams  intrude 

The  murky  night  is  gone. 


812  A    WEEK. 

How  could  the  patient  pine  have  knows 
The  morning  breeze  would  come, 

Or  humble  flowers  anticipate 
The  insect's  noonday  hum,  — 

Till  the  new  light  with  morning  cheer 
From  far  streamed  through  the  aisles, 

And  nimbly  told  the  forest  trees 
For  many  stretching  miles  ? 

I've  beard  within  my  inmost  soul 
Such  cheerful  morning  news, 

In  the  horizon  of  my  mind 
Have  seen  such  orient  hues, 

As  in  the  twilight  of  the  dawn, 
When  the  first  birds  awake, 

Are  heard  within  some  silent  wood, 
Where  they  the  small  twigs  break, 


Or  in  the  eastern  skies  are 
Before  the  sun  appears, 
The  harbingers  of  summer  heats 
Which  from  afar  he  bears. 

Whole  weeks  and  months  of  my  summer  life  slide 
away  in  thin  volumes  like  mist  and  smoke,  till  at  length, 
Borne  warm  morning,  perchance,  I  see  a  sheet  of  mist 
blown  down  the  brook  to  the  swamp,  and  I  float  as  high 
above  the  fields  with  it.  I  can  recall  to  mind  the  stillest 
summer  hours,  in  which  the  grasshopper  sings  over  the 
mulleins,  and  there  is  a  valor  in  that  time  the  bare 
memory  of  which  is  armor  that  can  laugh  at  any  blow 
of  fortune.  For  our  lifetime  the  strains  of  a  harp  are 
heard  to  swell  and  die  alternately,  and  death  is  but  "  the 
pause  when  the  blast  is  recollecting  itself." 

We  lay  awake  a  long  while,  listening  to  the  murmurs 
of  the  brook,  in  the  angle  formed  by  whose  bank  witk 


WEDNESDAY.  313 

che  river  our  tent  was  pitched,  and  there  was  a  sort  of 
man  interest  in  its  story,  which  ceases  not  in  freshet  or 
in  drought  the  livelong  summer,  and  the  profounder 
lapse  of  the  river  was  quite  drowned  by  its  din.  But 
the  rill,  whose 

"  Silver  sands  and  pebbles  sing 
Eternal  ditties  with  the  spring," 

is  silenced  by  the  first  frosts  of  winter,  while  mightier 
streams,  on  whose  bottom  the  sun  never  shines,  clogged 
with  sunken  rocks  and  the  ruins  of  forests,  from  whose 
surface  comes  up  no  murmur,  are  strangers  to  the  icy 
fetters  which  bind  fast  a  thousand  contributary  rills. 

I  dreamed  this  night  of  an  event  which  had  occurred 
long  before.  It  was  a  difference  with  a  Friend,  which 
had  not  ceased  to  give  me  pain,  though  I  had  no  cause 
to  blame  myself.  But  in  my  dream  ideal  justice  was  at 
length  done  me  for  his  suspicions,  and  I  received  that 
compensation  which  I  had  never  obtained  in  my  waking 
hours.  I  was  unspeakably  soothed  and  rejoiced,  even 
after  I  awoke,  because  in  dreams  we  never  deceive  our 
selves,  nor  are  deceived,  and  this  seemed  to  have  the 
authority  of  a  final  judgment. 

We  bless  and  curse  ourselves.  Some  dreams  are  di 
vine,  as  well  as  some  waking  thoughts.  Donne  sings  of 
one 

"  Who  dreamt  devoutlier  than  most  use  to  pray." 

Dreams  are  the  touchstones  of  our  characters.  We  are 
scarcely  less  afflicted  when  we  remember  some  unworthi- 
ness  in  our  conduct  in  a  dream,  than  if  it  had  been 
actual,  and  the  intensity  of  our  grief,  which  is  our  atone 
ment,  measures  the  degree  by  which  this  is  separated 
from  an  actual  unworthiness.  For  in  dreams  we  but 

14 


314  A    WEEK. 

act  a  part  which  must  have  been  learned  and  rehearsed 
in  our  waking  hours,  and  no  doubt  could  discover  some 
waking  consent  thereto.  If  this  meanness  had  not  ita 
foundation  in  us,  why  are  we  grieved  at  it?  In  dreams 
we  see  ourselves  naked  and  acting  out  our  real  charac 
ters,  even  more  clearly  than  we  see  others  awake.  But 
an  unwavering  and  commanding  virtue  would  compel 
even  its  most  fantastic  and  faintest  dreams  to  respect  its 
ever-wakeful  authority;  as  we  are  accustomed  to  say 
carelessly,  we  should  never  have  dreamed  of  such  a 
thing.  Our  truest  life  is  when  we  are  in  dreams  awake. 

**  And,  more  to  lulle  him  in  his  slumber  soft, 
A  trickling  streams  from  high  rock  tumbling  downe, 
And  ever-drizzling  raine  upon  the  loft, 
Mixt  with  a  murmuring  winde,  much  like  the  sown* 
Of  swarming  bees,  did  cast  him  in  a  swowne. 
No  other  noyse,  nor  people's  troublous  cryes, 
As  still  are  wont  t'  annoy  the  walled  towne, 
Might  there  be  heard;  but  careless  Quiet  lye§ 

Wrapt  in  eternall  silence  farre  from  enemyat." 


THURSDAY. 


"He  trode  the  implanted  forest  floor,  whereon 
The  all-seeing  sun  for  ages  hath  not  shone, 
Where  feeds  the  moose,  and  walks  the  surly  bear, 
And  up  the  tall  mast  runs  the  woodpecker. 

Where  darkness  found  him  he  lay  glad  at  night  5 
There  the  red  morning  touched  him  with  its  light. 

Go  where  he  will,  the  wise  man  is  at  home, 
His  hearth  the  earth, —his  hall  the  azure  dome ; 
Where  his  clear  spirit  leads  him,  there  's  his  road, 
By  God's  own  light  illumined  and  foreshowed." 


THUESDAY. 


WHEN  we  awoke  this  morning,  we  heard  the  faint, 
deliberate,  and  ominous  sound  of  rain-drops  on  our  cot 
ton  roof.  The  rain  had  pattered  all  night,  and  now  the 
whole  country  wept,  the  drops  falling  in  the  river,  and 
on  the  alders,  and  in  the  pastures,  and  instead  of  any 
bow  in  the  heavens,  there  was  the  trill  of  the  hair-bird 
all  the  morning.  The  cheery  faith  of  this  little  bird 
atoned  for  the  silence  of  the  whole  woodland  choir  be 
side.  When  we  first  stepped  abroad,  a  flock  of  sheep, 
led  by  their  rams,  came  rushing  down  a  ravine  in  our 
rear,  with  heedless  haste  and  unreserved  frisking,  as  if 
unobserved  by  man,  from  some  higher  pasture  where 
they  had  spent  the  night,  to  taste  the  herbage  by  the 
river-side ;  but  when  their  leaders  caught  sight  of  our 
white  tent  through  the  mist,  struck  with  sudden  astonish 
ment,  with  their  fore-feet  braced,  they  sustained  the 
rushing  torrent  in  their  rear,  and  the  whole  flock  stood 
stock-still,  endeavoring  to  solve  the  mystery  in  their 
sheepish  brains.  At  length,  concluding  that  it  boded  no 
mischief  to  them,  they  spread  themselves  out  quietly 
over  the  field.  We  learned  afterward  that  we  had 
pitched  our  tent  on  the  very  spot  which  a  few  summers 
before  had  been  occupied  by  a  party  of  Penobscots. 
We  could  see  rising  before  us  through  the  mist  a  dark 
conical  eminence  called  Hooksett  Pinnacle,  a  landmark 


518  A    WEEK. 

to  boatmen,  and  also  Uncannunuc  Mountain,  broad  off 
on  the  west  side  of  the  river. 

This  was  the  limit  of  our  voyage,  for  a  few  hours  more 
in  the  rain  would  have  taken  us  to  the  last  of  the  locks, 
and  our  boat  was  too  heavy  to  be  dragged  around  the 
long  and  numerous  rapids  which  would  occur.  On  foot, 
however,  we  continued  up  along  the  bank,  feeling  oui 
way  with  a  stick  through  the  showery  and  foggy  day, 
and  climbing  over  the  slippery  logs  in  our  path  with  as 
much  pleasure  and  buoyancy  as  in  brightest  sunshine; 
scenting  the  fragrance  of  the  pines  and  the  wet  clay 
under  our  feet,  and  cheered  by  the  tones  of  invisible 
waterfalls ;  with  visions  of  toadstools,  and  wandering 
frogs,  and  festoons  of  moss  hanging  from  the  spruce- 
trees,  and  thrushes  flitting  silent  under  the  leaves ;  our 
road  still  holding  together  through  that  wettest  of  weath 
er,  like  faith,  while  we  confidently  followed  its  lead. 
We  managed  to  keep  our  thoughts  dry,  however,  and 
only  our  clothes  were  wet.  It  was  altogether  a  cloudy 
and  drizzling  day,  with  occasional  brightenings  in  the 
mist,  when  the  trill  of  the  tree-sparrow  seemed  to  be 
ushering  in  sunny  hours. 

"Nothing  that  naturally  happens  to  man  can  hurt 
him,  earthquakes  and  thunder-storms  not  excepted,"  said 
a  man  of  genius,  who  at  this  time  lived  a  few  miles 
farther  on  our  road.  When  compelled  by  a  shower  to 
take  shelter  under  a  tree,  we  may  improve  that  oppor 
tunity  for  a  more  minute  inspection  of  some  of  Nature's 
works.  I  have  stood  under  a  tree  in  the  woods  half  a 
day  at  a  time,  during  a  heavy  rain  in  the  summer,  and 
yet  employed  myself  happily  and  profitably  there  prying 
with  microscopic  eye  into  the  crevices  of  the  bark  or 
the  leaves  of  the  fungi  at  my  feet.  "  Riches  are  the 


THURSDAY.  319 

attendants  of  the  miser  ;  and  the  heavens  rain  plen- 
teously  upon  the  mountains."  I  can  fancy  that  it  would 
be  a  luxury  to  stand  up  to  one's  chin  in  some  retired 
swamp  a  whole  summer  day,  scenting  the  wild  honey 
suckle  and  bilberry  blows,  and  lulled  by  the  minstrelsy 
of  gnats  and  mosquitoes  !  A  day  passed  in  the  society 
of  those  Greek  sages,  such  as  described  in  the  Banquet 
cf  Xenophon,  would  not  be  comparable  with  the  dry 
wit  of  decayed  cranberry  vines,  and  the  fresh  Attic  salt 
of  the  moss-beds.  Say  twelve  hours  of  genial  and 
familiar  converse  with  the  leopard  frog ;  the  sun  to  rise 
behind  alder  and  dogwood,  and  climb  buoyantly  to  his 
meridian  of  two  hands'  breadth,  and  finally  sink  to  rest 
behind  some  bold  western  hummock.  To  hear  the  even 
ing  chant  of  the  mosquito  from  a  thousand  green  chapels, 
and  the  bittern  begin  to  boom  from  some  concealed  fort 
like  a  sunset  gun !  —  Surely  one  may  as  profitably  be 
soaked  in  the  juices  of  a  swamp  for  one  day  as  pick 
his  way  dry-shod  over  sand.  Cold  and  damp, — 
are  they  not  as  rich  experience  as  warmth  and  dry- 
ness  ? 

At  present,  the  drops  come  trickling  down  the  stubble 
while  we  lie  drenched  on  a  bed  of  withered  wild  oats, 
by  the  side  of  a  bushy  hill,  and  the  gathering  in  of  the 
clouds,  with  the  last  rush  and  dying  breath  of  the  wind, 
and  then  the  regular  dripping  of  twigs  and  leaves  the 
country  over,  enhance  the  sense  of  inward  comfort  and 
sociableness.  The  birds  draw  closer  and  are  more 
familiar  under  the  thick  foliage,  seemingly  composing 
new  strains  upon  their  roosts  against  the  sunshine. 
What  were  the  amusements  of  the  drawing-room  and 
the  library  in  comparison,  if  we  had  them  here  ?  We 
should  still  sing  as  of  old, — 


820  A    WEEK. 

My  books  I  'd  fain  cast  off,  I  cannot  read, 
'Twixt  every  page  my  thoughts  go  stray  at  large 
Down  in  the  meadow,  where  is  richer  feed, 
And  will  not  mind  to  hit  their  proper  targe. 

Plutarch  was  good,  and  so  was  Homer  too, 
Our  Shakespeare's  life  were  rich  to  live  again, 
What  Plutarch  read,  that  was  not  good  nor  true, 
Nor  Shakespeare's  books,  unless  his  books  were  meo 

Here  while  I  lie  beneath  this  walnut  bough, 
What  care  I  for  the  Greeks  or  for  Troy  town, 
If  juster  battles  are  enacted  now 
Between  the  ants  upon  this  hummock's  crown? 

Bid  Homer  wait  till  I  the  issue  learn, 
If  red  or  black  the  gods  will  favor  most, 
Or  yonder  Ajax  will  the  phalanx  turn, 
Struggling  to  heave  some  rock  against  the  host. 

Tell  Shakespeare  to  attend  some  leisure  hour, 
For  now  I  've  business  with  this  drop  of  dew, 
And  see  vou  not,  the  clouds  prepare  a  shower,— 
I  '11  meet  him  shortly  when  the  sky  is  blue. 

This  bed  of  herd's-grass  and  wild  oats  was  spread 
Last  year  with  nicer  skill  than  monarchs  use, 
A  clover  tuft  is  pillow  for  my  head, 
And  violets  quite  overtop  my  shoes. 

And  now  the  cordial  clouds  have  shut  all  in 
And  gently  swells  the  wind  to  say  all 's  well 
The  scattered  drops  are  falling  fast  and  thin, 
Some  in  the  pool,  some  in  the  flower-bell. 

I  am  well  drenched  upon  my  bed  of  oats  ; 
But  see  that  globe  come  rolling  down  its  stem 
Now  like  a  lonely  planet  there  it  floats, 
And  now  it  sinks  into  my  garment's  hem. 

Drip  drip  the  trees  for  all  the  country  round, 
And  richness  rare  distils  from  every  bough, 
The  wind  alone  it  is  makes  every  soutid, 
Shaking  down  crystals  on  the  leaves  below. 


THURSDAY.  321 

For  shame  the  sun  will  never  show  himself, 
Who  could  not  with  his  beams  e'er  melt  me  so, 
My  dripping  locks,  —  they  would  become  an  elf, 
Who  in  a  beaded  coat  does  gayly  go. 

The  Pinnacle  is  a  small  wooded  hill  which  rises  very 
abruptly  to  the  height  of  about  two  hundred  feet,  near 
the  shore  at  Hooksett  Fails.  As  Uncannunuc  Moun 
tain  is  perhaps  the  best  point  from  which  to  view  the 
valley  of  the  Merrimack,  so  this  hill  affords  the  best 
view  of  the  river  itself.  I  have  sat  upon  its  summit,  a 
precipitous  rock  only  a  few  rods  long,  in  fairer  weather, 
when  the  sun  was  setting  and  filling  the  river  valley 
with  a  flood  of  light.  You  can  see  up  and  down  the 
Merrimack  several  miles  each  way.  The  broad  and 
straight  river,  full  of  light  and  life,  with  its  sparkling 
and  foaming  falls,  the  islet  which  divides  the  stream,  the 
village  of  Hooksett  on  the  shore  almost  directly  under 
your  feet,  so  near  that  you  can  converse  with  its  inhab 
itants  or  throw  a  stone  into  its  yards,  the  woodland  lake 
at  its  western  base,  and  the  mountains  in  the  north  and 
northeast,  make  a  scene  of  rare  beauty  and  complete 
ness,  which  the  traveller  should  take  pains  to  behold. 

We  were  hospitably  entertained  in  Concord,  New 
Hampshire,  which  we  persisted  in  calling  New  Concord, 
as  we  had  been  wont,  to  distinguish  it  from  our  native 
town,  from  which  we  had  been  told  that  it  was  named 
and  in  part  originally  settled.  This  would  have  been 
the  proper  place  to  conclude  our  voyage,  uniting  Con 
cord  with  Concord  by  these  meandering  rivers,  but  our 
boat  was  moored  some  miles  below  its  port. 

The  richness  of  the  intervals  at  Penacook,  now  Con 
cord,  New  Hampshire,  bad  been  observed  by  explorers, 
and,  according  to  the  historian  of  Haverhill,  in  the 
14*  u 


322  A    WEEK. 

u  year  1726,  considerable  progress  was  made  in  the  settle 
ment,  and  a  road  was  cut  through  the  wilderness  from  Ha- 
verhill  to  Penacook.  In  the  fall  of  1727,  the  first  family,  that 
of  Captain  Ebenezer  Eastman,  moved  into  the  place.  Hia 
team  was  driven  by  Jacob  Shute,  who  was  by  birth  a  French 
man,  and  he  is  said  to  have  been  the  first  person  who  drove 
a  team  through  the  wilderness.  Soon  after,  says  tradition, 
one  Ayer,  a  lad  of  18,  drove  a  team  consisting  often  yoke  of 
oxen  to  Penacook,  swam  the  river,  and  ploughed  a  portion  of 
the  interval.  He  is  supposed  to  have  been  the  first  person 
who  ploughed  land  in  that  place.  After  he  had  completed  his 
work,  he  started  on  his  return  at  sunrise,  drowned  a  yoke  of 
oxen  while  recrossing  the  river,  and  arrived  at  Haverhill 
about  midnight.  The  crank  of  the  first  saw-mill  was  man 
ufactured  in  Haverhill,  and  carried  to  Penacook  on  a 
horse." 

But  we  found  that  the  frontiers  were  not  this  way  any 
longer.  This  generation  has  come  into  the  world  fatally 
late  for  some  enterprises.  Go  where  we  will  on  the 
surface  of  things,  men  have  been  there  before  us.  We 
cannot  now  have  the  pleasure  of  erecting  the  last  house; 
that  was  long  ago  set  up  in  the  suburbs  of  Astoria  City, 
and  our  boundaries  have  literally  been  run  to  the  South 
Sea,  according  to  the  old  patents.  But  the  lives  of  men, 
though  more  extended  laterally  in  their  range,  are  still 
as  shallow  as  ever.  Undoubtedly,  as  a  Western  orator 
said,  "  Men  generally  live  over  about  the  same  surface  ; 
some  live  long  and  narrow,  and  others  live  broad  and 
short " ;  but  it  is  all  superficial  living.  A  worm  is  as 
good  a  traveller  as  a  grasshopper  or  a  cricket,  and  a 
much  wiser  settler.  With  all  their  activity  these  do  not 
hop  away  from  drought  nor  forward  to  summer.  We 
do  not  avoid  evil  by  fleeing  before  it,  but  by  rising 
above  or  diving  below  its  plane  ;  as  the  wwm  escapei 


THURSDAY.  323 

drought  and  frost  by  boring  a  few  inches  deeper.  The 
frontiers  are  not  east  or  west,  north  or  south,  but  wher 
ever  a  man  fronts  a  fact,  though  that  fact  be  his  neigh 
bor,  there  is  an  unsettled  wilderness  between  him  and 
Canada,  between  him  and  the  setting  sun,  or,  farther 
still,  between  him  and  it.  Let  him  build  himself  a  log- 
house  with  the  bark  on  where  he  is,  fronting  IT,  and 
wage  there  an  Old  French  war  for  seven  or  seventy 
years,  with  Indians  and  Rangers,  or  whatever  else  may 
come  between  him  and  the  reality,  and  save  his  scalp  if 
he  can. 

We  now  no  longer  sailed  or  floated  on  the  river,  but 
trod  the  unyielding  land  like  pilgrims.  Sadi  tells  who 
may  travel ;  among  others,  "  A  common  mechanic, 
who  can  earn  a  subsistence  by  the  industry  of  his  hand, 
and  shall  not  have  to  stake  his  reputation  for  every 
morsel  of  bread*  as  philosophers  have  said."  He  may 
travel  who  can  subsist  on  the  wild  fruits  and  game  of 
the  most  cultivated  country.  A  man  may  travel  fast 
enough  and  earn  his  living  on  the  road.  I  have  at 
times  been  applied  to  to  do  work  when  on  a  journey ;  to 
do  tinkering  and  repair  clocks,  when  I  had  a  knapsack 
on  my  back.  A  man  once  applied  to  me  to  go  into  a 
factory,  stating  conditions  and  wages,  observing  that  I 
lucceeded  in  shutting  the  window  of  a  railroad  car  in 
which  we  were  travelling,  when  the  other  passengers 
had  failed.  "  Hast  thou  not  heard  of  a  Sufi,  who  was 
hammering  some  nails  into  the  sole  of  his  sandal ;  an 
officer  of  cavalry  took  him  by  the  sleeve,  saying,  Come 
along  and  shoe  my  horse."  Farmers  have  asked  me  to 
assist  them  in  haying,  when  I  was  passing  their  fields. 
A  man  once  applied  to  me  to  mend  his  umbrella,  taking 


324  A     WEEK. 

ine  for  an  umbrella-mender,  because,  being  on  a  jour 
ney,  I  carried  an  umbrella  in  my  hand  while  the  sun 
shone.  Another  wished  to  buy  a  tin  cup  of  me,  observ 
ing  that  I  had  one  strapped  to  my  belt,  and  a  sauce-pan 
on  my  back.  The  cheapest  way  to  travel,  and  the  way 
to  travel  the  farthest  in  the  shortest  distance,  is  to  go 
afoot,  carrying  a  dipper,  a  spoon,  and  a  fish-line,  some 
Indian  meal,  some  salt,  and  some  sugar.  When  you 
come  to  a  brook  or  pond,  you  can  catch  fish  and  cook 
them ;  or  you  can  boil  a  hasty-pudding  ;  or  you  can  buy 
a  loaf  of  bread  at  a  farmer's  house  for  fourpence,  moisten 
it  in  the  next  brook  that  crosses  the  road,  and  dip  into 
it  your  sugar,  —  this  alone  will  last  you  a  whole  day  ;  — 
or,  if  you  are  accustomed  to  heartier  living,  you  can  buy 
a  quart  of  milk  for  two  cents,  crumb  your  bread  or  cold 
pudding  into  it,  and  eat  it  with  your  own  spoon  out  of 
your  own  dish.  Any  one  of  these  things  I  mean,  not 
all  together.  I  have  travelled  thus  some  hundreds  of 
miles  without  taking  any  meal  in  a  house,  sleeping  on 
the  ground  when  convenient,  and  found  it  cheaper,  and 
in  many  respects  more  profitable,  than  staying  at  home. 
So  that  some  have  inquired  why  it  would  not  be  best  to 
travel  always.  But  I  never  thought  of  travelling  simply 
as  a  means  of  getting  a  livelihood.  A  simple  woman 
down  in  Tyngsborough,  at  whose  house  I  once  stopped  to 
get  a  draught  of  water,  when  I  said,  recognizing  the 
bucket,  that  I  had  stopped  there  nine  years  before  for 
the  same  purpose,  asked  if  I  was  not  a  traveller,  suppos 
ing  that  I  had  been  travelling  ever  since,  and  had  now 
coma  rcund  again  ;  that  travelling  was  one  of  the  pro 
fessions,  more  or  less  productive,  which  her  husband  did 
not  follow.  But  continued  travelling  is  far  from  pro 
d  active.  It  begins  with  wearing  away  the  soles  of  th« 


THURSDAY.  525 

Fhoes,  and  making  the  feet  sore,  and  erelong  it  will 
wear  a  man  clean  up,  after  making  his  heart  sore  into 
the  bargain.  I  have  observed  that  the  after-life  of  those 
who  have  travelled  much  is  very  pathetic.  True  and 
sincere  travelling  is  no  pastime,  but  it  is  as  serious  as 
the  grave,  or  any  part  of  the  human  journey,  and  it  re 
quires  a  long  probation  to  be  broken  into  it.  I  do  not 
speak  of  those  that  travel  sitting,  the  sedentary  trav 
ellers  whose  legs  hang  dangling  the  while,  mere  idle 
symbols  of  the  fact,  any  more  than  when  we  speak  of 
sitting  hens  we  mean  those  that  sit  standing,  but  I  mean 
those  to  whom  travelling  is  life  for  the  legs,  and  death 
too,  at  last.  The  traveller  must  be  born  again  on  the 
road,  and  earn  a  passport  from  the  elements,  the  princi 
pal  powers  that  be  for  him.  He  shall  experience  at  last 
that  old  threat  of  his  mother  fulfilled,  that  he  shall  be 
skinned  alive.  His  sores  shall  gradually  deepen  them 
selves  that  they  may  heal  inwardly,  while  he  gives  no 
rest  to  the  sole  of  his  foot,  and  at  night  weariness  must 
be  his  pillow,  that  so  he  may  acquire  experience  against 
his  rainy  days.  —  So  was  it  with  us. 

Sometimes  we  lodged  at  an  inn  in  the  woods,  where 
trout-fishers  from  distant  cities  had  arrived  before  UP, 
and  where,  to  'our  astonishment,  the  settlers  dropped  in 
at  nightfall  to  have  a  chat  and  hear  the  news,  though 
there  was  but  one  road,  and  no  other  house  was  visible, 
—  as  if  they  had  come  out  of  the  earth.  There  we 
sometimes  read  old  newspapers,  who  never  before  read 
new  ones,  and  in  the  rustle  of  their  leaves  heard  the 
dashing  of  the  surf  along  the  Atlantic  shore,  instead  of 
the  sough  of  the  wind  among  the  pines.  But  then  walk 
ing  had  given  us  an  appetite  even  for  the  least  palatable 
und  nutritious  food. 


326  A     WEKK. 

Some  hard  and  dry  book  in  a  dead  language,  which 
you  have  found  it  impossible  to  read  at  home,  but  for 
which  you  have  still  a  lingering  regard,  is  the  best  to 
carry  with  you  on  a  journey.  At  a  country  inn,  in  the 
barren  society  of  ostlers  and  travellers,  I  could  under 
take  the  writers  of  the  silver  or  the  brazen  age  with 
confidence.  Almost  the  last  regular  service  which  I 
performed  in  the  cause  of  literature  was  to  read  the 
works  of 

AULUS  PERSICS  FLACCCS. 

If  you  have  imagined  what  a  divine  work  is  spread 
out  for  the  poet,  and  approach  this  author  too,  in  the 
hope  of  finding  the  field  at  length  fairly  entered  on,  you 
will  hardly  dissent  from  the  words  of  the  prologue, 

"  Ipse  semipaganus 
Ad  sacra  Vatum  carmen  affero  nostrum." 

I  half  pagan 
Bring  my  verses  to  the  shrine  of  the  poets. 

Here  is  none  of  the  interior  dignity  of  Virgil,  nor 
the  elegance  and  vivacity  of  Horace,  nor  will  any  sibyl 
be  needed  to  remind  you,  that  from  those  older  Greek 
poets  there  is  a  sad  descent  to  Persius.  You  can  scarce 
ly  distinguish  one  harmonious  sound  amid  this  unmusical 
bickering  with  the  follies  of  men. 

One  sees  that  music  has  its  place  in  thought,  but  hard- 
iy  as  yet  in  language.  When  the  Muse  arrives,  we 
wait  for  her  to  remould  language,  and  impart  to  it  her 
own  rhythm.  Hitherto  the  verse  groans  and  labors 
with  its  load,  and  goes  not  forward  blithely,  singing  by 
the  way.  The  best  ode  may  be  parodied,  indeed  is  it 
self  a  parody,  and  has  a  poor  and  trivial  sound,  like  a 


THURSDAY.  327 

man  stepping  on  the  rounds  of  a  ladder.  Homer  and 
Shakespeare  and  Milton  and  Marvell  arid  Wordsworth 
are  but  the  rustling  of  leaves  and  crackling  of  twigs  in 
the  forest,  and  there  is  not  yet  the  sound  of  any  bird, 
The  Muse  has  never  lifted  up  her  voice  to  sing.  Most 
of  all,  satire  will  not  be  sung.  A  Juvenal  or  Persius  do 
not  marry  music  to  their  verse,  but  are  measured  fault 
finders  at  best;  stand  but  just  outside  the  faults  they 
condemn,  and  so  are  concerned  rather  about  the  mon 
ster  which  they  have  escaped,  than  the  Fair  prospect 
before  them.  Let  them  live  on  an  age,  and  they  will 
have  travelled  out  of  his  shadow  and  reach,  and  found 
other  objects  to  ponder. 

As  long  as  there  is  satire,  the  poet  is,  as  it  were,  par- 
ticeps  criminis.  One  sees  not  but  he  had  best  let  bad 
take  care  of  itself,  and  have  to  do  only  with  what  is  be 
yond  suspicion.  If  you  light  on  the  least  vestige  of 
truth,  and  it  is  the  weight  of  the  whole  body  still  which 
stamps  the  faintest  trace,  an  eternity  will  not  suffice  to 
extol  it,  while  no  evil  is  so  huge,  but  you  grudge  to 
bestow  on  it  a  moment  of  hate.  Truth,  never  turns  to 
rebuke  falsehood  ;  her  own  straightforwardness  is  the 
severest  correction.  Horace  would  not  have  written 
satire  so  well  if  he  had  not  been  inspired  by  it,  as  by  a 
passion,  and  fondly  cherished  his  vein.  In  his  odes,  the 
love  always  exceeds  the  hate,  so  that  the  severest  satire 
still  sings  itself,  and  the  poet  is  satisfied,  though  the  folly 
be  not  corrected. 

A  sort  of  necessary  order  in  the  development  of 
Genius  is,  first,  Complaint ;  second,  Plaint ;  third,  Love. 
Complaint,  which  is  the  condition  of  Persius,  lies  not  in 
the  province  of  poetry.  Erelong  the  enjoyment  of  a 
superior  gooc.  would  have  changed  his  disgust  into  re 


S26  A    WEEK. 

gret.  We  can  never  have  much  sympathy  with  the 
complainer ;  for  after  searching  nature  through,  we  con 
clude  that  he  must  be  both  plaintiff  and  defendant  too. 
and  so  had  best  come  to  a  settlement  without  a  hear  ing. 
He  who  receives  an  injury  is  to  some  extent  an  accom 
plice  of  the  wrong-doer. 

Perhaps  it  would  be  truer  to  say,  that  the  highest 
strain  of  the  muse  is  essentially  plaintive.  The  saint's 
are  still  tears  of  joy.  Who  has  ever  heard  the  Innocent 
sing? 

But  the  divinest  poem,  or  the  life  of  a  great  man,  is 
the  severest  satire ;  as  impersonal  as  Nature  herself,  and 
like  the  sighs  of  her  winds  in  the  woods,  which  convey 
ever  a  slight  reproof  to  the  hearer.  The  greater  the 
genius,  the  keener  the  edge  of  the  satire. 

Hence  we  have  to  do  only  with  the  rare  and  fragmen 
tary  traits,  which  least  belong  to  Persius,  or  shall  we 
say,  are  the  properest  utterances  of  his  muse ;  since  that 
which  he  says  best  at  any  time  is  what  he  can  best  say 
at  all  times.  The  Spectators  and  Ramblers  have  not 
failed  to  cull  some  quotable  sentences  from  this  garden 
too,  so  pleasant  is  it  to  meet  even  the  most  familiar  truth 
in  a  new  dress,  when,  if  our  neighbor  had  said  it,  we 
should  have  passed  it  by  as  hackneyed.  Out  of  these 
six  satires,  you  may  perhaps  select  some  twenty  lines, 
which  fit  so  well  as  many  thoughts,  that  they  will  recur 
to  the  scholar  almost  as  readily  as  a  natural  image ; 
though  when  translated  into  familiar  language,  they  lose 
that  insular  emphasis,  which  fitted  them  for  quotatioa 
Such  lines  as  the  following,  translation  cannot  render 
commonplace.  Contrasting  the  man  of  true  religion 
with  those  who,  with  jealous  privacy,  would  fain  carry 
on  a  secret  commerce  with  the  gods,  he  says:  — 


THURSDAY.  329 

"  Baud  cuivis  promptum  est,  murmurque  humilesque  susurros 
Tollere  de  templis;  et  aperto  vivere  voto." 

It  is  not  easy  for  every  one  to  take  murmurs  and  low 
Whispers  out  of  the  temples,  and  live  with  open  vow. 

To  the  virtuous  man,  the  universe  is  the  only  sanctum 
tanctorum,  and  the  penetralia  of  the  temple  are  the 
broad  noon  of  his  existence.  Why  should  he  betake 
himself  to  a  subterranean  crypt,  as  if  it  were  the  only 
holy  ground  in  all  the  world  which  he  had  left  un pro 
faned  ?  The  obedient  soul  would  only  the  more  discover 
and  familiarize  things,  and  escape  more  and  more  into 
light  and  air,  as  having  henceforth  done  with  secrecy,  so 
that  the  universe  shall  not  seem  open  enough  for  it.  At 
length,  it  is  neglectful  even  of  that  silence  which  is  con 
sistent  with  true  modesty,  but  by  its  independence  of  all 
confidence  in  its  disclosures,  makes  that  which  it  imparts 
so  private  to  the  hearer,  that  it  becomes  the  care  of  the 
whole  world  that  modesty  be  not  infringed. 

To  the  man  who  cherishes  a  secret  in  his  breast,  there 
is  a  still  greater  secret  unexplored.  Our  most  indifferent 
acts  may  be  matter  for  secrecy,  but  whatever  we  do  with 
the  utmost  truthfulness  and  integrity,  by  virtue  of  its 
pureness,  must  be  transparent  as  light. 

In  the  third  satire,  he  asks :  — 

"Est  aliquid  qub  tendis,  et  in  quod  dirigis  arcum? 
An  passim  sequeris  corvos,  testave,  lutove, 
Securus  quo  pes  ferat,  atque  ex  tempore  vivis?  " 

Is  there  anything  to  which  thou  tendest,  and  against  which  thou 

directest  thy  bow? 

Or  dost  thou  pursue  crows,  at  random,  with  pottery  or  clay, 
Careless  whither  thy  feet  bear  thee>  and  live  ex  tempore  f 

The  bad  sense  is  always  a  secondary  one.     Language 
not  appear  to  har^  justice  done  it,  but  is  obviously 


830  A    WKKK. 

cramped  and  narrowed  in  its  significance,  when  any 
meanness  is  described.  The  truest  construction  is  not 
put  upon  it.  What  may  readily  be  fashioned  into  a 
rule  of  wisdom,  is  here  thrown  in  the  teeth  of  the  slug 
gard,  and  constitutes  the  front  of  his  offence.  Univer 
sally,  the  innocent  man  will  come  forth  from  the  sharp 
est  inquisition  and  lecturing,  the  combined  din  of  reproof 
and  commendation,  with  a  faint  sound  of  eulogy  in  his 
ears.  Our  vices  always  lie  in  the  direction  of  our 
virtues,  and  in  their  best  estate  are  but  plausible  imita 
tions  of  the  latter.  Falsehood  never  attains  to  the 
dignity  of  entire  falseness,  but  is  only  an  inferior  sort  of 
truth ;  if  it  were  more  thoroughly  false,  it  would  incur 
danger  of  becoming  true. 

" Securus  quo  pes  ferat,  atque  ex  tempore  vivil" 

is  then  the  motto  of  a  wise  man.  For  first,  as  the  subtle 
discernment  of  the  language  would  have  taught  us,  with 
all  his  negligence  he  is  still  secure;  but  the  sluggard, 
notwithstanding  his  heedlessness,  is  insecure. 

The  life  of  a  wise  man  is  most  of  all  extemporaneous, 
for  he  lives  out  of  an  eternity  which  includes  all  time. 
The  cunning  mind  travels  further  back  than  Zoroaster 
each  instant,  and  comes  quite  down  to  the  present  with 
its  revelation.  The  utmost  thrift  and  industry  of  think 
ing  give  no  man  any  stock  in  life ;  his  credit  with  the 
inner  world  is  no  better,  his  capital  no  larger.  He  must 
try  his  fortune  again  to-day  as  yesterday.  All  questions 
rely  on  the  present  for  their  solution.  Time  measures 
nothing  but  itself.  The  word  that  is  written  may  bfc 
postponed,  but  not  that  on  the  lip.  If  this  is  what  the 
•jccusion  says,  let  the  occasion  say  it.  All  the  world  is 
forward  to  prompt  him  who  gets  up  to  live  without  his 
creed  iu  his  pocket. 


THURSDAY.  331 

In  the  fifth  satire,  which  is  the  best,  I  find,  — 

"  Stat  contra  ratio,  et  secretam  garrit  in  aurem, 
Ne  liceat  facere  id,  quod  quis  vitiabit  agendo." 

Reason  opposes,  and  whispers  in  the  secret  ear, 

That  it  is  not  lawful  to  do  that  which  one  will  spoil  by  doing. 

Only  they  who  do  not  see  how  anything  might  be  better 
done  are  forward  to  try  their  hand  on  it.  Even  the 
master  workman  must  be  encouraged  by  the  reflection, 
that  his  awkwardness  will  be  incompetent  to  do  that  thing 
harm,  to  which  his  skill  may  fail  to  do  justice.  Here  is 
no  apology  for  neglecting  to  do  many  things  from  a  sense 
of  our  incapacity,  —  for  what  deed  does  not  fall  maimed 
and  imperfect  from  our  hands  ?  —  but  only  a  warning  to 
bungle  less. 

The  satires  of  Persius  are  the  furthest  possible  from 
inspired  ;  evidently  a  chosen,  not  imposed  subject.  Per 
haps  I  have  given  him  credit  for  more  earnestness  than 
is  apparent ;  but  it  is  certain,  that  that  which  alone  we 
can  call  Persius,  which  is  forever  independent  and  con 
sistent,  was  in  earnest,  and  so  sanctions  the  sober  con 
sideration  of  all.  The  artist  and  his  work  are  not  to  be 
separated.  The  mo>t  wilfully  foolish  man  cannot  stand 
aloof  from  his  folly,  but  the  deed  and  the  doer  together 
make  ever  one  sober  fact.  There  is  but  one  stage  for 
the  peasant  and  the  actor.  The  buffoon  cannot  bribe 
you  to  laugh  always  at  his  grimaces  ;  they  shall  sculpture 
themselves  in  Egyptian  granite,  to  stand  heavy  as  the 
pyramids  on  the  ground  of  his  character. 


Suns  rose  and  set  and  found  us  still  on  the  dank  forest 
path  which  meanders  up  thi  Pemigewasset,  now  more 


A     \VEEK. 

like  an  otter's  or  a  marten's  trail,  or  where  a  beaver  had 
iragged  his  trap,  than  where  the  wheels  of  travel  raise 
a  dust;  where  towns  begin  to  serve  as  gores,  only  to 
hold  the  earth  together.  The  wild  pigeon  sat  secure 
above  our  heads,  high  on  the  dead  limbs  of  naval  pines, 
reduced  to  a  robin's  size.  The  very  yards  of  our  hostel- 
ries  inclined  upon  the  skirts  of  mountains,  and,  as  we 
passed,  we  looked  up  at  a  steep  angle  at  the  stems  of 
maples  waving  in  the  clouds. 

Far  up  in  the  country,  —  for  we  would  be  faithful  to 
our  experience,  —  in  Thornton,  perhaps,  we  met  a  soldier 
lad  in  the  woods,  going  to  muster  in  full  regimentals, 
and  holding  the  middle  of  the  road ;  deep  in  the  forest, 
with  shouldered  musket  and  military  step,  and  thoughts 
of  war  and  glory  all  to  himself.  It  was  a  sore  trial  to 
the  youth,  tougher  than  many  a  battle,  to  get  by  us 
creditably  and  with  soldierlike  bearing.  Poor  man! 
He  actually  shivered  like  a  reed  in  his  thin  military 
pants,  and  by  the  time  we  had  got  up  with  him,  all  the 
sternness  that  becomes  the  soldier  had  forsaken  his  face, 
and  he  skulked  past  as  if  he  were  driving  his  father's 
sheep  under  a  sword-proof  helmet.  It  was  too  much 
for  him  to  carry  any  extra  armor  then,  who  could  not 
easily  dispose  of  his  natural  arms.  And  for  his  legs, 
they  were  like  heavy  artillery  in  boggy  places;  better 
to  cut  the  traces  and  forsake  them.  His  greaves  chafed 
and  wrestled  one  with  another  for  want  of  other  foes. 
But  he  did  get  by  and  get  off  with  all  his  munitions, 
and  lived  to  fight  another  day ;  and  I  do  not  record  this 
as  casting  any  suspicion  on  his  honor  and  real  bravery 
in  the  field 

Wandering  on  through  notches  which  the  streams  had 
made,  by  the  side  and  over  the  brows  of  hoar  hills  and 


THURSDAY.  333 

mountains,  across  the  stumpy,  rocky,  forested,  and  bepas- 
tured  country,  we  at  length  crossed  on  prostrate  trees 
over  the  Amonoosuck,  and  breathed  the  free  air  of  Un 
appropriated  Land.  Thus,  in  fair  days  as  well  as  foul, 
we  had  traced  up  the  river  to  which  our  native  stream 
is  a  tributary,  until  from  Merrimack  it  became  the 
Pemigewasset  that  leaped  by  our  side,  and  when  we  had 
passed  its  fountain-head,  the  Wild  Amonoosuck,  whose 
puny  channel  was  crossed  at  a  stride,  guiding  us  toward 
its  distant  source  among  the  mountains,  and  at  length, 
without  its  guidance,  we  were  enabled  to  reach  the  sum 
mit  of  AGIOCOCHOOK. 


44  Sweet  days,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky, 
Sweet  dews  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night, 
For  thou  must  die." 

HERBERT. 

When  we  returned  to  Hooksett,  a  week  afterward,  the 
melon  man,  in  whose  corn-barn  we  had  hung  our  tent 
and  buffaloes  and  other  things  to  dry,  was  already  picking 
his  hops,  with  many  women  and  children  to  help  him. 
We  bought  one  watermelon,  the  largest  in  his  patch,  to 
carry  with  us  for  ballast.  It  was  Nathan's,  which  he 
might  sell  if  he  wished,  having  been  conveyed  to  him  in 
the  green  state,  and  owned  daily  by  his  eyes.  After  due 
consultation  with  "  Father,"  the  bargain  was  concluded, 
—  we  to  buy  it  at  a  venture  on  the  vine,  green  or  ripe, 
our  risk,  and  pay  "what  the  gentlemen  pleased."  It 
proved  to  be  ripe ;  for  we  nad  had  honest  experience  in 
lelecting  this  fvuit. 

Finding;  our  boat  safe  in  its  harbor,  under  Uncannunuc 


384  A    WEEK. 

Mountain,  with  a  fair  wind  and  the  current  in  our  favor, 
we  commenced  our  return  voyage  at  noon,  sitting  at  our 
ease  and  conversing,  or  in  silence  watching  for  the  last 
trace  of  each  reach  in  the  river  as  a  bend  concealed  it 
from  our  view.  As  the  season  was  further  advanced,  the 
wind  now  blew  steadily  from  the  north,  and  with  our  sail 
set  we  could  occasionally  lie  on  our  oars  without  loss  of 
time.  The  lumbermen  throwing  down  wood  from  the  top 
of  the  high  bank,  thirty  or  forty  feet  above  the  water, 
that  it  might  be  sent  down  stream,  paused  in  their  work 
to  watch  our  retreating  sail.  By  this  time,  indeed,  we 
were  well  known  to  the  boatmen,  and  were  hailed  as  the 
Revenue  Cutter  of  the  stream.  As  we  sailed  rapidly 
down  the  river,  shut  in  between  two  mounds  of  earth,  the 
sounds  of  this  timber  rolled  down  the  bank  enhanced  the 
silence  and  vastness  of  the  noon,  and  we  fancied  that 
only  the  primeval  echoes  were  awakened.  The  vision 
of  a  distant  scow  just  heaving  in  sight  round  a  headland 
also  increased  by  contrast  the  solitude. 

Through  the  din  and  desultoriness  of  noon,  even  in 
the  most  Oriental  city,  is  seen  the  fresh  and  primitive 
and  savage  nature,  in  whicli  Scythians  and  Ethiopians 
and  Indians  dwell.  What  is  echo,  what  are  light  and 
shade,  day  and  night,  ocean  and  stars,  earthquake  and 
eclipse,  there?  The  works  of  man  are  everywhere  swal 
lowed  up  in  the  immensity  of  Nature.  The  JEgean  Sea 
is  but  Lake  Huron  still  to  the  Indian.  Also  there  is  all 
the  refinement  of  civilized  life  in  the  woods  under  a  sylvan 
garb.  The  wildest  scenes  have  an  air  of  domesticity  and 
homeliness  even  to  the  citizen,  and  when  the  flicker's 
cackle  is  heard  in  the  clearing,  he  is  reminded  that  civ 
ilization  has  wrought  but  little  change  there.  Science  '19 
welcome  to  the  deepest  recesses  of  the  forest,  for  there 


THURSDAY.  335 

o  nature  obeys  the  same  old  civil  laws.  The  little  red 
L  ig  on  the  stump  of  a  pine,  —  for  it  the  wind  shifts  and 
tbe  sun  breaks  through  the  clouds.  In  the  wildest  na 
ture,  there  is  not  only  the  material  of  the  most  cultivated 
life,  and  a  sort  of  anticipation  of  the  last  result,  but  a 
greater  refinement  alreadj'  than  is  ever  attained  by  man. 
There  is  papyrus  by  the  river-side,  and  rushes  for  light, 
and  the  goose  only  flies  overhead,  ages  before  the  studi 
ous  are  born  or  letters  invented,  and  that  literature 
which  the  former  suggest,  and  even  from  the  first  have 
rudely  served,  it  may  be  man  does  not  yet  use  them  to 
express.  Nature  is  prepared  to  welcome  into  her  scen 
ery  the  finest  work  of  human  art,  for  she  is  herself  an 
art  so  cunning  that  the  artist  never  appears  in  his  work. 
Art  is  not  tame,  and  Nature  is  not  wild,  in  the  ordi 
nary  sense.  A  perfect  work  of  man's  art  would  also  be 
wild  or  natural  in  a  good  sense.  Man  tames  Nature 
only  that  he  may  at  last  make  her  more  free  even  than 
he  found  her,  though  he  may  never  yet  have  succeeded. 

With  this  propitious  breeze,  and  the  help  of  our  oars, 
we  soon  reached  the  Falls  of  Amoskeag,  and  the  mouth 
of  the  Piscataquoag,  and  recognized,  as  we  swept  rapidly 
by,  many  a  fair  bank  and  islet  on  which  our  eyes  had 
rested  in  the  upward  passage.  Our  boat  was  like  that 
which  Chaucer  describes  in  his  Dream,  in  which  the 
knight  took  his  departure  from  the  island, 

"  To  journey  for  his  marriage, 
And  return  with  such  an  host, 
That  wedded  might  be  least  and  most.  ... 
Which  barge  was  as  a  mar's  thought, 
After  his  pleasure  to  him  brought, 
The  queene  herself  accustomed  aye 
In  the  same  barge  to  play, 


336  4    WEEK. 

It  needed  neither  mast  ne  rother, 

I  have  not  heard  of  such  another, 

No  master  for  the  governance, 

Hie  sayled  by  thought  and  pleasaunce, 

Without  labor  east  and  west, 

All  was  one,  calme  or  tempest." 

So  we  sailed  this  afternoon,  thinking  of  the  saying  of 
Pythagoras,  though  we  had  no  peculiar  right  to  remem 
ber  it,  "  It  is  beautiful  when  prosperity  is  present  with 
intellect,  and  when  sailing  as  it  were  with  a  prosperous 
wind,  actions  are  performed  looking  to  virtue ;  just  as  a 
pilot  looks  to  the  motions  of  the  stars."  All  the  world 
reposes  in  beauty  to  him  who  preserves  equipoise  in  his 
life,  and  moves  serenely  on  his  path  without  secret  vio 
lence  ;  as  he  who  sails  down  a  stream,  he  has  only  to 
steer,  keeping  his  bark  in  the  middle,  and  carry  it  round 
the  falls.  The  ripples  curled  away  in  our  wake,  like 
ringlets  from  the  head  of  a  child,  while  we  steadily  held 
on  our  course,  and  under  the  bows  we  watched 

"  The  swaying  soft, 

Made  by  the  delicate  wave  parted  in  front, 
As  through  the  gentle  element  we  move 
Like  shadows  gliding  through  untroubled  dreams." 

The  forms  of  beauty  fall  naturally  around  the  path  of 
him  who  is  in  the  performance  of  his  proper  work ;  as 
the  curled  shavings  drop  from  the  plane,  and  borings 
cluster  round  the  auger.  Undulation  is  the  gentlest  and 
most  ideal  of  motions,  produced  by  one  fluid  falling  on 
another.  Rippling  is  a  more  graceful  flight.  From  a 
hill-top  you  may  detect  in  it  the  wings  of  birds  endlessly 
repeated.  The  two  waving  lines  which  represent  tha 
flight  of  birds  appear  to  have  been  copied  from  the  rip 
Ule. 


THURSDAY.  337 

The  trees  made  an  admirable  fence  to  the  landscape, 
skirting  the  horizon  on  every  side.  The  single  trees  and 
the  groves  left  standing  on  the  interval  appeared  nat 
urally  disposed,  though  the  farmer  had  consulted  only  his 
convenience,  for  he  too  falls  into  the  scheme  of  Nature. 
Art  can  never  match  the  luxury  and  superfluity  of  Na 
ture.  In  the  former  all  is  seen;  it  cannot  affcrd  con 
cealed  wealth,  and  is  niggardly  in  comparison ;  but  Na 
ture,  even  when  she  is  scant  and  thin  outwardly,  satisfies 
us  still  by  the  assurance  of  a  certain  generosity  at  the 
roots.  In  swamps,  where  there  is  only  here  and  there 
an  evergreen  tree  amid  the  quaking  moss  and  cran 
berry  beds,  the  bareness  does  not  suggest  poverty.  The 
single-spruce,  which  I  had  hardly  noticed  in  gardens, 
attracts  me  in  such  places,  and  now  first  I  understand 
why  men  try  to  make  them  grow  about  their  houses. 
But  though  there  may  be  very  perfect  specimens  in 
front-yard  plots,  their  beauty  is  for  the  most  part  inef 
fectual  there,  for  there  is  no  such  assurance  of  kindred 
wealth  beneath  and  around  them,  to  make  them  show  to 
advantage.  As  we  have  said,  Nature  is  a  greater  and 
more  perfect  art.  the  art  of  God ;  though,  referred  to 
herself,  she  is  genius ;  and  there  is  a  similarity  between 
her  operations  and  man's  art  even  in  the  details  and  tri 
fles.  When  the  overhanging  pine  drops  into  the  water, 
by  the  sun  and  water,  and  the  wind  rubbing  it  against 
the  shore,  its  boughs  are  worn  into  fantastic  shapes,  and 
white  and  smooth,  as  if  turned  in  a  lathe.  Man's  art  has 
wisely  imitated  those  forms  into  which  all  matter  is  most 
inclined  to  run,  as  foliage  and  fruit.  A  hammock  swung 
in  a  grove  assumes  the  exact  form  of  a  canoe,  broader 
or  narrower,  and  higher  or  Jower  at  the  ends,  as  more 
»r  fewer  persons  are  in  it,  and  it  rolls  in  the  air  with 
15  r 


338  A    WEEK. 

the  motion  of  the  body,  like  a  canoe  in  the  water.  Our 
art  leaves  its  shavings  and  its  dust  about ;  her  art  ex 
hibits  itself  even  in  the  shavings  and  the  dust  which  we 
make.  She  has  perfected  herself  by  an  eternity  of  prac 
tice.  The  world  is  well  kept;  no  rubbish  accumulates; 
the  morning  air  is  clear  even  at  this  day,  and  no  dust 
has  settled  on  the  grass.  Behold  how  the  evening  now 
steals  over  the  fields,  the  shadows  of  the  trees  creeping 
iirther  and  farther  into  the  meadow,  and  erelong  the 
stars  will  come  to  bathe  in  these  retired  waters.  Her 
undertakings  are  secure  and  never  fail.  If  I  were  awak 
ened  from  a  deep  sleep,  I  should  know  which  side  of  the 
meridian  the  sun  might  be  by  the  aspect  of  nature,  and 
by  the  chirp  of  the  crickets,  and  yet  no  painter  can  paint 
this  difference.  The  landscape  contains  a  thousand  dials 
which  indicate  the  natural  divisions  of  time,  the  shadows 
of  a  thousand  styles  point  to  the  hour. 

44  Not  only  o'er  the  dial's  face, 

This  silent  phantom  day  by  day, 
With  slow,  unseen,  unceasing  pace 

Steals  moments,  months,  and  years  away; 
From  hoary  rock  and  aged  tree, 

From  proud  Palmyra's  mouldering  walls, 
From  Teneriffe,  towering  o'er  the  sea, 

From  every  blade  of  grass  it  falls." 

It  is  almost  the  only  game  which  the  trees  play  at,  this 
tit-for-tat,  now  this  side  in  the  sun,  now  that,  the  drama 
of  the  day.  In  deep  ravines  under  the  eastern  sides  of 
cliffs,  Night  forwardly  plants  her  foot  even  at  noonday, 
and  as  Day  retreats  she  steps  into  his  trenches,  skulking 
from  tree  to  tree,  from  fence  to  fence,  until  at  last  she 
sits  in  his  citadel  and  draws  out  her  forces  into  the 
plain.  It  may  be  that  the  forenoon  is  brighter  than  the 
afternoon,  not  only  because  of  the  greater  transparency 


THURSDAY.  339 

of  its  atmosphere,  but  because  we  naturally  look  most 
into  the  west,  as  forward  into  the  day,  and  so  in  the 
forenoon  see  the  sunny  side  of  things,  but  in  the  after 
noon  the  shadow  of  every  tree. 

The  afternoon  is  now  far  advanced,  and  a  fresh  and 
leisurely  wind  is  blowing  over  the  river,  making  long 
reaches  of  bright  ripples.  The  river  has  done  its  stint, 
and  appears  not  to  flow,  but  lie  at  its  length  reflecting 
the  light,  and  the  haze  over  the  woods  is  like  the  inau 
dible  panting,  or  rather  the  gentle  perspiration  of  resting 
nature,  rising  from  a  myriad  of  pores  into  the  attenuated 
atmosphere. 

On  the  thirty-first  day  of  March,  one  hundred  arid 
forty-two  years  before  this,  probably  about  this  time  in 
the  afternoon,  there  were  hurriedly  paddling  down  this 
part  of  the  river,  between  the  pine  woods  which  then 
fringed  these  banks,  two  white  women  and  a  boy,  who 
had  left  an  island  at  the  mouth  of  the  Contoocook  before 
daybreak.  They  were  slightly  clad  for  the  season,  in 
the  English  fashion,  and  handled  their  paddles  unskil 
fully,  but  with  nervous  energy  and  determination,  and 
at  the  bottom  of  their  canoe  lay  the  still  bleeding  scalps 
of  ten  of  the  aborigines.  They  were  Hannah  Dustan, 
and  her  nurse,  Mary  Neff,  both  of  Haverhill,  eighteen 
miles  from  the  mouth  of  this  river,  and  an  English  boy, 
named  Samuel  Lennardson,  escaping  from  captivity 
among  the  Indians.  On  the  15th  of  March  previous, 
Hannah  Dustan  had  been  compelled  to  rise  from  child- 
oed,  and  half  dressed,  witn  one  foot  bare,  accompanied 
by  her  nurse,  commence  an  uncertain  march,  in  stilJ 
inclement  weather,  through  the  snow  and  the  wilder 
She  had  seen  h«jr  seven  elder  children  flee  witlr 


340  A    WEEK. 

their  father,  but  knew  not  of  their  fate.  She  had  seen 
her  infant's  brains  dashed  out  against  an  apple-tree,  and 
had  left  her  own  and  her  neighbors'  dwellings  in  ashes. 
When  she  reached  the  wigwam  of  her  captor,  situated 
on  an  island  in  the  Merrimack,  more  than  twenty  miles 
above  where  we  now  are,  she  had  been  told  that  she 
and  her  nurse  were  soon  to  be  taken  to  a  distant  Indian 
settlement,  and  there  made  to  run  the  gauntlet  naked. 
The  family  of  this  Indian  consisted  of  two  men,  three 
women,  and  seven  children,  beside  an  English  boy, 
whom  she  found  a  prisoner  among  them.  Having  de 
termined  to  attempt  her  escape,  she  instructed  the  boy 
to  inquire  of  one  of  the  men,  how  he  should  despatch  an 
enemy  in  the  quickest  manner,  and  take  his  scalp. 
"  Strike  'em  there,"  said  he,  placing  his  finger  on  his 
temple,  and  he  also  showed  him  how  to  -take  off  the 
scalp.  On  the  morning  of  the  31st  she  arose  before 
daybreak,  and  awoke  her  nurse  and  the  boy,  and  taking 
the  Indians'  tomahawks,  they  killed  them  all  in  their 
sle^p,  excepting  one  favorite  boy,  and  one  squaw  who 
fled  wounded  with  him  to  the  woods.  The  English  boy 
struck  the  Indian  who  had  given  him  the  information, 
on  the  temple,  as  he  had  been  directed.  They  then 
collected  all  the  provision  they  could  find,  and  took  their 
master's  tomahawk  and  gun,  and  scuttling  all  the  canoes 
but  one,  commenced  their  flight  to  Haverhill,  distant 
about  sixty  miles  by  the  river.  But  after  having  pro 
ceeded  a  short  distance,  fearing  that  her  story  would  not 
be  believed  if  she  should  escape  to  tell  it,  they  returned 
to  the  silent  wigwam,  and  taking  off  the  scalps  of  the 
dead,  put  them  into  a  bag  as  proofs  of  what  they  had 
done,  and  then  retracing  their  steps  to  the  shore  in  the 
twilight,  recommenced  their  voyage. 


THURSDAY.  341 

Early  this  morning  this  deed  was  performed,  and 
now,  perchance,  these  tired  women  and  this  boy,  their 
clothes  stained  with  blood,  and  their  minds  racked  with 
alternate  resolution  and  fear,  are  making  a  hasty  meal 
of  parched  corn  and  moose-meat,  while  their  canoe  glides 
under  these  pine  roots  whose  stumps  are  still  standing 
on  the  bank.  They  are  thinking  of  the  dead  whom  they 
have  left  behind  on  that  solitary  isle  far  up  the  stream, 
and  of  the  relentless  living  warriors  who  are  in  pursuit. 
Every  withered  leaf  which  the  winter  has  left  seems  to 
know  their  story,  and  in  its  rustling  to  repeat  it  and  be 
tray  them.  An  Indian  lurks  behind  every  rock  and 
pine,  and  their  nerves  cannot  bear  the  tapping  of  a 
woodpecker.  Or  they  forget  their  own  dangers  and 
their  deeds  in  conjecturing  the  fate  of  their  kindred,  and 
whether,  if  they  escape  the  Indians,  they  shall  find  the 
former  still  alive.  They  do  not  stop  to  cook  their  meals 
upon  the  bank,  nor  land,  except  to  carry  their  canoe 
about  the  falls.  The  stolen  birch  forgets  its  master  and 
does  them  good  service,  and  the  swollen  current  bears 
them  swiftly  along  with  little  need  of  the  paddle,  except 
to  steer  and  keep  them  warm  by  exercise.  For  ice  is 
floating  in  the  river ;  the  spring  is  opening ;  the  musk- 
rat  and  the  beaver  are  driven  out  of  their  holes  by  the 
flood  ;  deer  gaze  at  them  from  the  bank ;  a  few  faint- 
singing  forest  birds,  perchance,  fly  across  the  river  to 
the  northernmost  shore  ;  the  fish-hawk  sails  and  screams 
overhead,  and  geese  fly  over  with  a  startling  clangor ; 
but  they  do  not  observe  these  things,  or  they  speedily 
forget  them.  They  do  not  smile  or  chat  all  day. 
Sometimes  they  pass  an  Indian  grave  surrounded  by  its 
paling  on  the  bank,  or  the  frame  of  a  wigwam,  with  a 
few  coals  left  behind,  or  the  withered  stalks  still  rustling 


£42  A    WEKK. 

in  the  Indian's  solitary  cornfield  on  the  interval.  The 
birch  stripped  of  its  bark,  or  the  charred  stump  where  a 
tree  has  been  burned  down  to  be  made  into  a  canoe, 
these  are  the  only  traces  of  man,  —  a  fabulous  wild  man 
to  us.  On  either  side,  the  primeval  forest  stretches 
away  uninterrupted  to  Canada,  or  to  the  "  South  Sea"; 
to  the  white  man  a  drear  and  howling  wilderness,  but  to 
the  Indian  a  home,  adapted  to  his  nature,  and  cheerful 
as  the  smile  of  the  Great  Spirit. 

While  we  loiter  here  this  autumn  evening,  looking  for 
a  spot  retired  enough,  where  we  shall  quietly  rest  to 
night,  they  thus,  in  that  chilly  March  evening,  one  hun 
dred  and  forty-two  years  before  us,  with  wind  and  cur 
rent  favoring,  have  already  glided  out  of  sight,  not  to 
camp,  as  we  shall,  at  night,  but  while  two  sleep  one  will 
manage  the  canoe,  and  the  swift  stream  bear  them  on 
ward  to  the  settlements,  it  may  be,  even  to  old  John 
LovewelPs  house  on  Salmon  Brook  to-night. 

According  to  the  historian,  they  escaped  as  by  a  mir 
acle  all  roving  bands  of  Indians,  and  reached  their 
homes  in  safety,  with  their  trophies,  for  which  the  Gen 
eral  Court  paid  them  fifty  pounds.  The  family  of  Han 
nah  Dustan  all  assembled  alive  once  more,  except  the 
infant  whose  brains  were  dashed  out  against  the  apple- 
tree,  and  there  have  been  many  who  in  later  times  have 
lived  to  say  that  they  had  eaten  of  the  fruit  of  that  apple- 
tree. 

This  seems  a  long  while  ago,  and  yet  it  happened 
«ince  Milton  wrote  his  Paradise  Lost.  But  its  antiquity 
is  not  the  less  great  for  that,  for  we  do  not  regulate  our 
historical  time  by  the  English  standard,  nor  did  the 
English  by  the  Roman,  nor  the  Roman  by  the  Greek 


THURSDAY.  43 

"  We  must  look  a  long  way  back,"  says  Raleigh,  "  to 
find  the  Romans  giving  laws  to  nations,  and  their  con 
suls  bringing  king.*  and  princes  bound  in  chains  to  Rome 
in  triumph  ;  to  see  men  go  to  Greece  for  wisdom,  or 
Ophir  for  gold  ;  when  now  nothing  remains  but  a  poor 
paper  remembrance  of  their  former  condition."  And 
yet,  in  one  sense,  not  so  far  back  as  to  find  the  Pena- 
cooks  and  Pawtuckets  using  bows  and  arrows  and 
hatchets  of  stone,  on  the  banks  of  the  Merrimack.  From 
this  September  afternoon,  and  from  between  these  now 
cultivated  shores,  those  times  seemed  more  remote  than 
the  dark  ages.  On  beholding  an  old  picture  of  Concord, 
as  it  appeared  but  seventy-five  years  ago,  with  a  fair 
open  prospect  and  a  light  on  trees  and  river,  as  if  it 
were  broad  noon,  I  find  that  I  had  not  thought  the  sun 
shone  in  those  days,  or  that  men  lived  in  broad  daylight 
then.  Still  less  do  we  imagine  the  sun  shining  on  hill 
and  valley  during  Philip's  war,  on  the  war-path  of 
Church  or  Philip,  or  later  of  Lovewell  or  Paugus,  with 
serene  summer  weather,  but  they  must  have  lived  and 
fought  in  a  dim  twilight  or  night. 

The  age  of  the  world  is  great  enough  for  our  imagi 
nations,  even  according  to  the  Mosaic  account,  without 
borrowing  any  years  from  the  geologist.  From  Adam 
find  Eve  at  one  leap  sheer  down  to  the  deluge,  and  then 
through  the  ancient  monarchies,  through  Babylon  and 
Thebes,  Brahma  and  Abraham,  to  Greece  and  the  Ar 
gonauts;  whence  we  might  start  again  with  Orpheus 
and  the  Trojan  war,  the  Pyramids  and  the  Olympic 
game  and  Homer  and  Athens,  for  our  stages ;  and  af 
ter  a  breathing  space  at  the  building  of  Rome,  continue 
our  journey  down  through  Odin  and  Christ  to  —  Amer 
ica.  It  is  a  wearisome  while.  And  yet  the  lives  of  but 


844  A    WEEK. 

sixty  old  women,  such  as  live  under  the  hill,  say  of  a 
century  each,  strung  together,  are  sufficient  to  reach 
over  the  whole  ground.  Taking  hold  of  hands  they 
would  span  the  interval  from  Eve  to  my  own  mother. 
A  respectable  tea-party  merely,  —  whose  gossip  would 
be  Universal  History.  The  fourth  old  woman  from 
myself  suckled  Columbus,  —  the  ninth  was  nurse  to  the 
Norman  Conqueror,  —  the  nineteenth  was  the  Virgin 
Mary,  —  the  twenty-fourth  the  Cumcean  Sibyl,  —  the 
thirtieth  was  at  the  Trojan  war  and  Helen  her  name,  — 
the  thirty-eighth  was  Queen  Semiramis,  —  the  sixtieth 
was  Eve  the  mother  of  mankind.  So  much  for  the 

"  Old  woman  that  lives  under  the  hill, 
And  if  she  's  not  gone  she  lives  there  still." 

It  will  not  take  a  very  great-granddaughter  of  hers  to 
be  in  at  the  death  of  Time. 

We  can  never  safely  exceed  the  actual  facts  in  our 
narratives.  Of  pure  invention,  such  as  some  suppose, 
there  is  no  instance.  To  write  a  true  work  of  fiction 
even,  is  only  to  take  leisure  and  liberty  to  describe  some 
things  more  exactly  as  they  are.  A  true  account  of  the 
actual  is  the  rarest  poetry,  for  common  sense  always 
takes  a  hasty  and  superficial  view.  Though  I  am  not 
much  acquainted  with  the  works  of  Goethe,  I  should  say 
that  it  was  one  of  his  chief  excellences  as  a  writer,  that 
he  was  satisfied  with  giving  an  exact  description  of 
things  as  they  appeared  to  him,  and  their  effect  upon 
him.  Most  travellers  have  not  self-respect  enough  to  do 
this  simply,  and  make  objects  and  events  stand  around 
them  as  the  centre,  but  still  imagine  more  favorable 
positions  and  relations  than  the  actual  ones,  and  so  we 
get  no  valuable  report  from  them  at  all.  In  his  Italian 


THURSDAY.  345 

Travels  Goethe  jogs  along  at  a  snail's  pace,  but  always 
mindful  that  the  earth  is  beneath  and  the  heavens  are 
above  him.  His  Italy  is  not  merely  the  fatherland  of 
lazzaroni  and  virtuosi,  and  scene  of  splendid  ruins,  but  a 
solid  turf-clad  soil,  daily  shined  on  by  the  sun,  and 
nightly  by  the  moon.  Even  the  few  showers  are  faith 
fully  recorded.  He  speaks  as  an  unconcerned  spectator, 
whose  object  is  faithfully  to  describe  what  he  sees,  and 
that,  for  the  most  part,  in  the  order  in  which  he  sees  it. 
Even  his  reflections  do  not  interfere  with  his  descrip 
tions.  In  one  place  he  speaks  of  himself  as  giving  so 
glowing  and  truthful  a  description  of  an  old  tower  to  the 
peasants  who  had  gathered  around  him,  that  they  who 
had  been  born  and  brought  up  in  the  neighborhood  must 
needs  look  over  their  shoulders,  "  that,"  to  use  his  own 
words,  "  they  might  behold  with  their  eyes,  what  I  had 
praised  to  their  ears,"  — "  and  I  added  nothing,  not 
even  the  ivy  which  for  centuries  had  decorated  the 
walls."  It  would  thus  be  possible  for  inferior  minds  to 
produce  invaluable  books,  if  this  very  moderation  were 
not  the  evidence  of  superiority  ;  for  the  wise  are  not  so 
much  wiser  than  others  as  respecters  of  their  own  wis 
dom.  S6me,  poor  in  spirit,  re-cord  plaintively  only  what 
has  happened  to  them  ;  but  others  how  they  have  hap 
pened  to  the  universe,  and  the  judgment  which  they 
have  awarded  to  circumstances.  Above  all,  he  possessed 
a  hearty  good-will  to  all  men,  and  never  wrote  a  cross 
or  even  careless  word.  On  one  occasion  the  post-boy 
snivelling,  "  Signer  perdonate,  questa  e  la  mia  patria," 
he  confesses  that  "  to  me  poor  northerner  came  some 
thing  tear-like  into  the  eyes." 

Goethe's  whole  education  and  life  were  those  of  the 
Vtist.     He  lacks  the  unconsciousness  of  the  poet.     ID 
15* 


340  A    WEEK. 

his  autobiography  lie  describes  accurately  the  life  of  the 
author  of  Wilhelm  Meister.  For  as  there  is  in  that 
book,  mingled  with  a  rare  and  serene  wisdom,  a  certain 
pettiness  or  exaggeration  of  trifles,  wisdom  applied  to 
produce  a  constrained  and  partial  and  merely  well-bred 
man,  —  a  magnifying  of  the  theatre  till  life  itself  is 
turned  into  a  stage,  for  which  it  is  our  duty  to  study  our 
parts  well,  and  conduct  with  propriety  and  precision,  — 
so  in  the  autobiography,  the  fault  of  his  education  is,  so 
to  speak,  its  merely  artistic  completeness.  Nature  is 
hindered,  though  she  prevails  at  last  in  making  an  un 
usually  catholic  impression  on  the  boy.  It  is  the  life  of  a 
city  boy,  whose  toys  are  pictures  and  works  of  art,  whose 
wonders  are  the  theatre  and  kingly  processions  and 
crownings.  As  the  youth  studied  minutely  the  order 
and  the  degrees  in  the  imperial  procession,  and  suffered 
none  of  its  effect  to  be  lost  on  him,  so  the  man  aimed 
to  secure  a  rank  in  society  which  would  satisfy  his  no 
tion  of  fitness  aad  respectability.  He  was  defrauded  of 
much  which  the  savage  boy  enjoys.  Indeed,  he  himself 
has  occasion  to  say  in  this  very  autobiography,  when  at 
last  he  escapes  into  the  woods  without  the  gates: 
"  Thus  much  is  certain,  that  only  the  undefinaMe,  wide- 
expanding  feelings  of  youth  and  of  uncultivated  nations 
are  adapted  to  the  sublime,  which,  whenever  it  may  be 
excited  in  us  through  external  objects,  since  it  is  either 
formless,  or  else  moulded  into  forms  which  are  incom 
prehensible,  must  surround  us  with  a  grandeur  which 
we  find  above  our  reach."  He  further  says  of  himself: 
u  I  had  lived  among  painters  from  my  childhood,  and 
had  accustomed  myself  to  look  at  objects,  as  they  did, 
with  reference  lo  art."  And  this  was  his  practice  to  the 
last.  lie  was  even  too  well-bred  to  be  thoroughly  bred 


TiirubDAY.  347 

He  says  that  he  had  had  no  intercourse  with  the  lowest 
class  of  his  towns-boys.  The  child  should  have  the  ad 
vantage  of  ignorance  as  well  as  of  knowledge,  and  is  for 
tunate  if  he  gets  his  share  of  neglect  and  exposure. 

"  The  laws  of  Nature  break  the  rules  of  Art." 

The  Man  of  Genius  may  at  the  same  time  be,  indeed 
is  commonly,  an  Artist,  but  the  two  are  not  to  be  con 
founded.  The  Man  of  Genius,  referred  to  mankind,  is 
an  originator,  an  inspired  or  demonic  man,  who  pro 
duces  a  perfect  work  in  obedience  to  laws  yet  unex 
plored.  The  Artist  is  he  who  detects  and  applies  the 
law  from  observation  of  the  works  of  Genius,  whether 
of  man  or  nature.  The  Artisan  is  he  who  merely  ap 
plies  the  rules  which  others  have  detected.  There  has 
been  no  man  of  pure  Genius  ;  as  there  has  been  none 
wholly  destitute  of  Genius. 

Poetry  is  the  mysticism  of  mankind. 

The  expressions  of  the  poet  cannot  be  analyzed  ;  his 
sentence  is  one  word,  whose  syllables  are  words. 
There  are  indeed  no  words  quite  worthy  to  be  set  to  his 
music.  But  what  matter  if  we  do  not  hear  the  words 
always,  if  we  hear  the  music? 

Much  verse  fails  of  being  poetry  because  it  was  not 
written  exactly  at  the  right  crisis,  though  it  may  have 
been  inconceivably  near  to  it.  It  is  only  by  a  miracle 
that  poetry  is  written  at  all.  It  is  not  recoverable 
thought,  but  a  hup  caught  from  a  vaster  receding 
thought. 

A  poem  is  one  undivided  unimpeded  expression  fallen 
ripe  into  literature,  and  it  is  undividedly  and  unim- 
pededly  received  by  those  for  whom  it  was  matured. 

If  you  can  speak  what  yo  i  will  ne^er  hear,  if  you 


318  A     WKRK. 

can  write  what  you  will  never  read,  you  have  done  ran 
things. 

The  work  we  choose  should  be  our  own, 
God  lets  alone. 

The  unconsciousness  of  man  is  the  consciousness  of 
God. 

Deep  are  the  foundations  of  sincerity.  Even  stone 
walls  have  their  foundation  below  the  frost. 

What  is  produced  by  a  free  stroke  charms  us,  like  the 
forms  of  lichens  and  leaves.  There  is  a  certain  perfec 
tion  in  accident  which  we  never  consciously  attain. 
Draw  a  blunt  quill  filled  with  ink  over  a  sheet  of  paper, 
and  fold  the  paper  before  the  ink  is  dry,  transversely  to 
this  line,  and  a  delicately  shaded  and  regular  figure  will 
be  produced,  in  some  respects  more  pleasing  than  an 
elaborate  drawing. 

The  talent  of  composition  is  very  dangerous,  —  the 
striking  out  the  heart  of  life  at  a  blow,  as  the  Indian 
takes  off  a  scalp.  I  feel  as  if  my  life  had  grown  more 
outward  when  I  can  express  it. 

On  his  journey  from  Brenner  to  Verona,  Goethe 
writes  :  "  The  Tees  flows  now  more  gently,  and  makes  in 
many  places  broad  sands.  On  the  land,  near  to  the 
water,  upon  the  hillsides,  everything  is  so  closely 
planted  one  to  another,  that  you  think  they  must  choke 
one  another,  —  vineyards,  maize,  mulberry-trees,  apples, 
pears,  quinces,  and  nuts.  The  dwarf  elder  throws  itself 
vigorously  over  the  walls.  Ivy  grows  with  strong  stems 
up  the  rocks,  and  spreads  itself  wide  over  them,  the 
lizard  glides  through  the  intervals,  and  everything  that 
wanders  to  and  fro  reminds  one  of  the  loveliest  pictures 
of  art.  The  worne.i's  tufts  of  hair  bound  up,  the  men* 


THURSDAY.  349 

bare  breasts  and  light  jackets,  the  excellent  oxen  which 
they  drive  home  from  market,  the  little  asses  with  their 
loads,  —  everything  forms  a  living,  animated  Heinrich 
Roos.  And  now  that  it  is  evening,  in  the  mild  air  a 
few  clouds  rest  upon  the  mountains,  in  the  heavens  more 
stand  still  than  move,  and  immediately  after  sunset  the 
chirping  of  crickets  begins  to  grow  more  loud  ;  then  one 
feels  for  once  at  home  in  the  world,  and  not  as  concealed 
or  in  exile.  I  am  contented  as  though  I  had  been  born 
and  brought  up  here,  and  were  now  returning  from  a 
Greenland  or  whaling  voyage.  Even  the  dust  of  my 
Fatherland,  which  is  often  whirled  about  the  wagon, 
and  which  for  so  long  a  time  I  had  not  seen,  is  greeted. 
The  clock-and-bell  jingling  of  the  crickets  is  altogether 
lovely,  penetrating,  and  agreeable.  It  sounds  bravely 
when  roguish  boys  whistle  in  emulation  of  a  field  of 
such  songstresses.  One  fancies  that  they  really  enhance 
one  another.  Also  the  evening  is  perfectly  mild  as  the 
day." 

"  If  one  who  dwelt  in  the  south,  and  came  hither  from 
the  south,  should  hear  of  my  rapture  hereupon,  he  would 
deem  me  very  childish.  Alas  !  what  I  here  express  I 
have  long  known  while  I  suffered  under  an  unpropitious 
heaven,  and  now  may  I  joyful  feel  this  joy  as  an  excep 
tion,  which  we  should  enjoy  everforth  as  an  eternal  ne 
cessity  of  our  nature." 

Thus  we  "sayled  by  thought  and  pleasaunce,"  as 
Chaucer  says,  and  all  things  seemed  with  us  to  flow; 
the  shore  itself,  and  the  distant  cliffs,  were  dissolved  by 
the  undiluted  air.  The  hardest  material  seemed  to  obey 
.he  same  law  with  the  most  fluid,  and  so  indeed  in  the 
long  run  it  does.  Trees  were  buf  rivers  of  sap  and 


850  A    WEEK. 

woody  fibre,  flowing  from  the  atmosphere,  and  emp 
tying  into  the  earth  by  their  trunks,  as  their  roots 
flowed  upward  to  the  surface.  And  in  the  heavens 
there  were  rivers  of  stars,  and  milky-ways,  already  be 
ginning  to  gleam  and  ripple  over  our  heads.  There 
were  rivers  of  rock  on  the  surface  of  the  earth,  and  riv 
ers  of  ore  in  its  bowels,  and  our  thoughts  flowed  and 
circulated,  and  this  portion  of  time  was  but  the  current 
hour.  Let  us  wander  where  we  will,  the  universe  is 
built  round  about  us,  and  we  are  central  still.  If  we 
look  into  the  heavens  they  are  concave,  and  if  we  were  to 
look  into  a  gulf  as  bottomless,  it  would  be  concave  also. 
The  sky  is  curved  downward  to  the  earth  in  the  hori 
zon,  because  we  stand  on  the  plain.  I  draw  down  its 
skirts.  The  stars  so  low  there  seem  loath  to  depart,  but 
by  a  circuitous  path  to  be  remembering  me,  and  return 
ing  on  their  steps. 

We  had  already  passed  by  broad  daylight  the  scene 
of  our  encampment  at  Coos  Falls,  and  at  length  we 
pitched  our  camp  on  the  west  bank,  in  the  northern  part 
of  Merrimack,  nearly  opposite  to  the  large  island  on 
which  we  had  spent  the  noon  in  our  way  up  the  river. 

There  we  went  to  bed  that  summer  evening,  on  a 
sloping  shelf  in  the  bank,  a  couple  of  rods  from  our  boat, 
which  was  drawn  up  on  the  sand,  and  just  behind  a  thin 
fringe  of  oaks  which  bordered  the  river ;  without  having 
disturbed  any  inhabitants  but  the  spiders  in  the  grass, 
which  came  out  by  the  light  of  our  lamp,  and  crawled 
over  our  buffaloes.  When  we  looked  out  from  under 
the  tent,  the  trees  were  seen  dimly  through  the  mist, 
and  a  cool  dew  hung  upon  the  grass,  which  seemed  to 
rejoice  in  the  night,  and  with  the  damp  air  we  inhaled  a 
solid  ^ragrance.  Having  eaten  our  supper  of  hot  cocoa 


THURSDAY.  351 

and  bread  and  watermelon,  we  soon  grew  weary  of  con 
versing,  and  writing  in  our  journals,  and,  putting  out  the 
lantern  which  hung  from  the  tent-pole,  fell  asleep. 

Unfortunately,  many  things  have  been  omitted  which 
should  have  been  recorded  in  our  journal ;  for  though  we 
made  it  a  rule  to  set  down  all  our  experiences  therein, 
yet  such  a  resolution  is  very  hard  to  keep,  for  the  im 
portant  experience  rarely  allows  us  to  remember  such 
obligations,  and  so  indifferent  things  get  recorded,  while 
that  is  frequently  neglected.  It  is  not  easy  to  write  in 
a  journal  what  interests  us  at  any  time,  because  to  write 
U  is  not  what  interests  us. 

Whenever  we  awoke  in  the  night,  still  eking  out  our 
dreams  with  half-awakened  thoughts,  it  was  not  till  after 
an  interval,  when  the  wind  breathed  harder  than  usual, 
flapping  the  curtains  of  the  tent,  and  causing  its  cords  to 
vibrate,  that  we  remembered  that  we  lay  on  the  bank  of 
the  Merrimack,  and  not  in  our  chamber  at  home.  With 
our  heads  so  low  in  the  grass,  we  heard  the  river  whirl 
ing  and  sucking,  and  lapsing  downward,  kissing  the 
shore  as  it  went,  sometimes  rippling  louder  than  usual, 
and  again  its  mighty  current  making  only  a  slight  lim 
pid,  trickling  sound,  as  if  our  water-pail  had  sprung  a 
leak,  and  the  water  were  flowing  into  the  grass  by  our 
side.  The  wind,  rustling  the  oaks  and  hazels,  impressed 
us  like  a  wakeful  and  inconsiderate  person  up  at  mid 
night,  moving  about,  and  putting  things  to  rights,  occa 
sionally  stirring  up  whole  drawers  full  of  leaves  at  a 
^uff.  There  seemed  to  be  a  great  haste  and  preparation 
throughout  Nature,  as  for  a  distinguished  visitor ;  all  her 
aisles  had  to  be  swept  in  the  night,  by  a  thousand  hand 
maidens,  and  a  thousand  pots  to  be  boiled  for  the  next 
day's  feasting  ;  —  such  a  whispering  bustle,  as  if  ten 


352  A    WEEK. 

thousand  fairies  made  their  fingers  fly,  silently  sewing 
ut  the  new  carpet  with  which  the  earth  was  to  be  clothed, 
and  the  new  drapery  which  was  to  adorn  the  trees. 
And  then  the  wind  would  lull  and  die  away,  and  we 
like  it  fell  asleep  again. 


FRIDAY. 


"  The  Boteman  ptrayft 

Held  on  his  course  with  stayed  stedfastnesse, 
Ne  ever  shroncke,  ne  ever  sought  to  bayt 
His  tryed  armes  for  toylesome  wearinesse  ; 
But  with  his  oares  did  sweepe  the  watry  wilderness." 

Branm 


«  Bummer's  robe  groin 
,  and  li*e  an  oft-dyed  garment  shows.* 


FEIDAY. 


As  we  lay  awake  long  before  daybreak,  listening  to 
the  rippling  of  the  river,  and  the  rustling  of  the  leaves, 
in  suspense  whether  the  wind  blew  up  or  down  the 
stream,  was  favorable  or  unfavorable  to  our  voyage,  we 
already  suspected  that  there  was  a  change  in  the 
weather,  from  a  freshness  as  of  autumn  in  these  sounds. 
The  wind  in  the  woods  sounded  like  an  incessant  water 
fall  dashing  and  roaring  amid  rocks,  and  we  even  felt 
encouraged  by  the  unusual  activity  of  the  elements.  He 
who  hears  the  rippling  of  rivers  in  these  degenerate 
days  will  not  utterly  despair.  That  night  was  the  turn 
ing-point  in  the  season.  We  had  gone  to  bed  in  sum 
mer,  and  we  awoke  in  autumn  ;  for  summer  passes  into 
autumn  in  some  unimaginable  point  of  time,  like  the 
turning  of  a  leaf. 

We  found  our  boat  in  the  dawn  just  as  we  had  left  it, 
and  as  if  waiting  for  us,  there  on  the  shore,  in  autumn, 
all  cool  and  dripping  with  dew,  and  our  tracks  still  fresh 
in  the  wet  sand  around  it,  the  fairies  all  gone  or  con 
cealed.  Before  five  o'clock  we  pushed  it  into  the  fog, 
and,  leaping  in,  at  one  shove  were  out  of  sight  of  the 
shores,  and  began  to  sweep  downward  with  the  rushing 
river,  keeping  a  sharp  lookout  for  rocks.  We  could 
^ee  only  the  yellow  gurgling  water,  and  a  solid  bank  of 
fog  on  every  side,  forming  a  small  yard  around  us.  We 


356  A    WEEK. 

Boon  passed  the  mouth  of  the  Souhegan,  and  the  village 
of  Merrimack,  and  as  the  mist  gradually  rolled  away, 
and  we  were  relieved  from  the  trouble  of  watching  for 
rocks,  we  saw  by  the  flitting  clouds,  by  the  first  russet 
tinge  on  the  hills,  by  the  rushing  river,  the  cottages  on 
shore,  and  the  shore  itself,  so  coolly  fresh  and  shining 
with  dew,  and  later  in  the  day,  by  the  hue  of  the  grape 
vine,  the  goldfinch  on  the  willow,  the  flickers  flying  in 
flocks,  and  when  we  passed  near  enough  to  the  shore,  as 
we  fancied,  by  the  faces  of  men,  that  the  Fall  had  com 
menced.  The  cottages  looked  more  snug  and  comfort 
able,  and  their  inhabitants  were  seen  only  for  a  moment, 
and  then  went  quietly  in  and  shut  the  door,  retreating 
inward  to  the  haunts  of  summer. 

"  And  now  the  cold  autumnal  dews  are  seen 

To  cobweb  ev'ry  green; 
And  by  the  low-shorn  rowens  doth  appear 
The  fast-declining  year." 

We  heard  the  sigh  of  the  first  autumnal  wind,  and 
even  the  water  had  acquired  a  grayer  hue.  The  su 
mach,  grape,  and  maple  were  already  changed,  and  the 
milkweed  had  turned  to  a  deep  rich  yellow.  In  all 
woods  the  leaves  were  fast  ripening  for  their  fall ;  for 
their  full  veins  and  lively  gloss  mark  the  ripe  leaf,  and 
not  the  sered  one  of  the  poets ;  and  we  knew  that  the 
maples,  stripped  of  their  leaves  among  the  earliest,  would 
soon  stand  like  a  wreath  of  smoke  along  the  edge  of  the 
meadow.  Already  the  cattle  were  heard  to  low  wildly 
in  the  pastures  and  along  the  highways,  restlessly  run 
ning  to  and  fro,  as  if  in  apprehension  of  the  withering  of 
the  grass  and  of  the  approach  of  winter.  Our  thoughts, 
too,  began  to  rustle. 


FKiDAi.  357 

As  I  pass  along  the  streets  of  our  village  of  Concord 
on  the  day  of  our  annual  Cattle-Show,  when  it  usually 
happens  that  the  leaves  of  the  elms  and  buttonwoods 
begin  first  to  strew  the  ground  under  the  breath  of  the 
October  wind,  the  lively  spirits  in  their  sap  seem  lo 
mount  as  high  as  any  plough-boy's  let  loose  that  day  ; 
and  they  lead  my  thoughts  away  to  the  rustling  woods, 
where  the  trees  are  preparing  for  their  winter  campaign. 
This  autumnal  festival,  when  men  are  gathered  in 
crowds  in  the  streets  as  regularly  and  by  as  natural  a 
law  as  the  leaves  cluster  and  "rustle  by  the  wayside,  is 
naturally  associated  in  my  mind  with  the  fall  of  the  year. 
The  low  of  cattle  in  the  streets  sounds  like  a  hoarse 
symphony  or  running  bass  to  the  rustling  of  the  leaves. 
The  wind  goes  hurrying  down  the  country,  gleaning 
every  loose  straw  that  is  left  in  the  fields,  while  every 
farmer  lad  too  appears  to  scud  before  it,  —  having 
donned  his  best  pea-jacket  and  pepper-and-salt  waist 
coat,  his  unbent  trousers,  outstanding  rigging  of  duck  or 
kerseymere  or  corduroy,  and  his  furry  hat  withal,  —  to 
country  fairs  and  cattle-shows,  to  that  Rome  among  the 
villages  where  the  treasures  of  the  year  are  gathered. 
All  the  land  over  they  go  leaping  the  fences  with  their 
tough,  idle  palms,  which  have  never  learned  to  hang  by 
their  sides,  amid  the  low  of  calves  and  the  bleating  of 
sheep,  —  Amos,  Abner,  Elnathan,  Elbridge, — 

"  From  steep  pine-bearing  mountains  to  the  plain-" 

I  love  these  sons  of  earth  every  mother's  son  of  them, 
with  their  great  hearty  hearts  rushing  tumultuously  in 
herds  from  spectacle  to  spectacle,  as  if  fearful  lest  there 
should  not  be  time  between  sun  and  sun  to  see  them 
all,  and  the  sun  does  not  wait  more  than  in  haying-time. 


358  A    WEEK. 

"  Wise  Nature's  darlings,  they  live  in  the  world 
Perplexing  not  themselves  how  it  is  hurled." 

Running  hither  and  thither  with  appetite  for  the  coarse 
pastimes  of  the  day,  now  with  boisterous  speed  at  the 
heels  of  the  inspired  negro  from  whose  larynx  the  melo 
dies  of  ^all  Congo  and  Guinea  Coast  have  broke  loose 
into  our  streets  ;  now  to  see  the  procession  of  a  hundred 
yoke  of  oxen,  all  as  august  and  grave  as  Osiris,  or  the 
droves  of  neat  cattle  and  milch  cows  as  unspotted  as 
Isis  or  lo.  Such  as  had  no  love  for  Nature 

"  at  all, 
Came  lovers  home  from  this  great  festival." 

They  may  bring  their  fattest  cattle  and  richest  fruits  to 
the  fair,  but  they  are  all  eclipsed  by  the  show  of  men. 
These  are  stirring  autumn  days,  when  men  sweep  by  in 
crowds,  amid  the  rustle  of  leaves,  like  migrating  finches ; 
this  is  the  true  harvest  of  the  year,  when  the  air  is  but 
the  breath  of  men,  and  the  rustling  of  leaves  is  as  the 
trampling  of  the  crowd.  We  read  now-a-days  of  the 
ancient  festivals,  games,  and  processions  of  the  Greeks 
and  Etruscans,  with  a  little  incredulity,  or  at  least  with 
little  sympathy ;  but  how  natural  and  irrepressible  in 
every  people  is  some  hearty  and  palpable  greeting  of 
Nature.  The  Corybantes,  the  Bacchantes,  the  rude 
primitive  tragedians  with  their  procession  and  goat-song, 
and  the  whole  paraphernalia  of  the  Panathenaea,  which 
appear  so  antiquated  and  peculiar,  have  their  parallel 
now.  The  husbandman  is  always  a  better  Greek  than 
the  scholar  is  prepared  to  appreciate,  and  the  old  cus- 
torn  still  survives,  while  antiquarians  and  scholars  grow 
gray  in  commemorating  it.  The  farmers  crowd  to  th« 
fair  to-day  in  obedience  to  the  same  ancient  law,  which 


FRIDAY.  359 

Solon  or  Lycurgus  did  not  enact,  as  naturally  as  beea 
swarm  and  follow  their  queen. 

It  is  worth  the  while  to  see  the  country's  people,  how 
they  pour  into  the  town,  the  sober  farmer  folk,  now  all 
agDg,  their  very  shirt  and  coat-collars  pointing  forward, 
—  collars  so  broad  as  if  they  had  put  their  shirts  on 
wrong  end  upward,  for  the  fashions  always  tend  to  su 
perfluity,  —  and  with  an  unusual  springiness  in  their 
gait,  jabbering  earnestly  to  one  another.  The  more 
supple  vagabond,  too,  is  sure  to  appear  on  the  least  ru 
mor  of  such  a  gathering,  and  the  next  day  to  disappear, 
and  go  into  his  hole  like  the  seventeen-year  locust,  in  an 
ever-shabby  coat,  though  finer  than  the  farmer's  best, 
yet  never  dressed  ;  come  to  see  the  sport,  and  have  a 
hand  in  what  is  going,  —  to  know  "  what 's  the  row,"  if 
there  is  any ;  to  be  where  some  men  are  drunk,  some 
horses  race,  some  cockerels  fight ;  anxious  to  be  shaking 
props  under  a  table,  and  above  all  to  see  the  u  striped 
pig."  He  especially  is  the  creature  of  the  occasion. 
He  empties  both  his  pockets  and  his  character  into  the 
stream,  and  swims  in  such  a  day.  He  dearly  loves  the 
social  slush.  There  is  no  reserve  of  soberness  in  him. 

I  love  to  see  the  herd  of  men  feeding  heartily  on 
coarse  and  succulent  pleasures,  as  cattle  on  the  husks 
and  stalks  of  vegetables.  Though  there  are  many 
crooked  and  Grabbled  specimens  of  humanity  among 
them,  run  all  to  thorn  and  rind,  and  crowded  out  of 
shape  by  adverse  circumstances,  like  the  third  chestnut 
in  the  burr,  so  that  you  wonder  to  see  some  heads  wear 
a  whole  hat,  yet  fear  not  that  the  race  will  fail  or  waver 
in  them ;  like  the  crabs  which  grow  in  hedges,  they  fur 
nish  the  stocks  of  sweet  and  thrifty  fruits  still.  Thus  is 
nature  recruited  from  age  to  age,  while  the  fair  and  pal 


860  A.    WEKA. 

atable  varieties  die  out,  and  have  their  peiiod.  This 
is  that  mankind.  How  cheap  must  be  the  material  of 
which  so  many  men  are  made. 

The  wind  blew  steadily  down  the  stream,  so  that  we 
kept  our  sails  set,  and  lost  not  a  moment  of  the  forenoon 
by  delays,  but  from  early  morning  until  noon  were  con 
tinually  dropping  downward.  With  our  hands  on  the 
steering-paddle,  which  was  thrust  deep  into  the  river,  or 
bending  to  the  oar,  which  indeed  we  rarely  relinquished, 
we  felt  each  palpitation  in  the  veins  of  our  steed,  and 
each  impulse  of  the  wings  which  drew  us  above.  The 
current  of  our  thoughts  made  as  sudden  bends  as  the 
river,  which  was  continually  opening  new  prospects  to 
the  east  or  south,  but  we  are  aware  that  rivers  flow  most 
rapidly  and  shallowest  at  these  points.  The  steadfast 
shores  never  once  turned  aside  for  us,  but  still  trended 
as  they  were  made ;  why  then  should  we  always  turn 
aside  for  them? 

A  man  cannot  wheedle  nor  overawe  his  Genius.  It 
requires  to  be  conciliated  by  nobler  conduct  than  the 
world  demands  or  can  appreciate.  These  winged 
thoughts  are  like  birds,  and  will  not  be  handled ;  even 
hens  will  not  let  you  touch  them  like  quadrupeds. 
Nothing  was  ever  so  unfamiliar  and  startling  to  a  man 
as  his  own  thoughts. 

To  the  rarest  genius  it  is  the  most  expensive  to  suc 
cumb  and  conform  to  the  ways  of  the  world.  Genius 
is  the  worst  of  lumber,  if  the  poet  would  float  upon  the 
breeze  of  popularity.  The  bird  of  paradise  is  obliged 
constantly  to  fly  against  the  wind,  lest  its  gay  trappings, 
pressing  close  to  its  body,  impede  its  free  movements. 

He  is  the  best  sailor  who  can  steer  within  the  fewe»' 


FRIDAY.  361 

points  of  the  wind,  and  extract  a  motive  power  out  of  the 
greatest  obstacles.  Most  begin  to  veer  and  tack  as  soon 
as  the  wind  changes  from  aft,  and  as  within  the  tropics 
it  does  not  blow  from  all  points  of  the  compass,  there 
are  some  harbors  which  they  can  never  reach. 

The  poet  is  no  tender  slip  of  fairy  stock,  who  requires 
peculiar  institutions  and  edicts  for  his  defence,  but  the 
toughest  son  of  earth  and  of  Heaven,  and  by  his  greater 
strength  and  endurance  his  fainting  companions  will  rec 
ognize  the  God  in  him.  It  is  the  worshippers  of  beau 
ty,  after  all,  who  have  done  the  real  pioneer  work  of  the 
world. 

The  poet  will  prevail  to  be  popular  in  spite  of  his 
faults,  and  in  spite  of  his  beauties  too.  He  will  hit  the 
nail  on  the  head,  and  we  shall  not  know  the  shape  of  his 
hammer.  He  makes  us  free  of  his  hearth  and  heart, 
which  is  greater  than  to  oifer  one  the  freedom  of  a  city. 

Great  men,  unknown  to  their  generation,  have  their 
fame  among  the  great  who  have  preceded  them,  and  all 
true  worldly  fame  subsides  from  their  high  estimate  be 
yond  the  stars. 

Orpheus  does  not  hear  the  strains  which  issue  from  his 
lyre,  but  only  those  which  are  breathed  into  it ;  for  the 
original  strain  precedes  the  sound,  by  as  much  as  the 
echo  follows  after.  The  rest  is  the  perquisite  of  the 
rocks  and  trees  and  beasts. 

When  I  stand  in  a  library  where  is  all  the  recorded 
wit  of  the  world,  but  none  of  the  recording,  a  mere  accu 
mulated,  and  not  truly  cumulative  treasure,  where  im 
mortal  works  stand  side  by  side  with  anthologies  which 
did  not  survive  their  month,  and  cobweb  and  mildew 
tiave  already  spread  from  these  to  the  binding  of  those ; 
»nd  happily  I  am  reminded  of  what  poetry  is,  —  T  per- 
'6 


<)  A    WEKK. 

ceive  that  Shakespeare  and  Milton  did  not  foresee  into 
what  company  they  were  to  fall.  Alas  !  that  so  soon 
the  work  of  a  true  poet  should  be  swept  into  such  a  dust- 
hole! 

The  poet  will  write  for  his  peers  alone.  He  will  re 
member  only  that  he  saw  truth  and  beauty  from  his  posi 
tion,  and  expect  the  time  when  a  vision  as  broad  shall 
overlook  the  same  field  as  freely. 

We  are  often  prompted  to  speak  our  thoughts  to  our 
nei^nbors,  or  the  single  travellers  whom  we  meet  on  the 
road,  but  poetry  is  a  communication  from  our  home  and 
solitude  addressed  to  all  Intelligence.  It  never  whis 
pers  in  a  private  ear.  Knowing  this,  we  may  under 
stand  those  sonnets  said  to  be  addressed  to  particular 
persons,  or  "  To  a  Mistress's  Eyebrow."  Let  none  feel 
flattered  by  them.  For  poetry  write  love,  and  it  will  be 
equally  true. 

No  doubt  it  is  an  important  difference  between  men 
of  genius  or  poets,  and  men  not  of  genius,  that  the  latter 
are  unable  to  grasp  and  confront  the  thought  which  visits 
them.  But  it  is  because  it  is  too  faint  for  expression,  or 
even  conscious  impression.  What  merely  quickens  or 
retards  the  blood  in  their  veins  and  fills  their  afternoons 
with  pleasure  they  know  not  whence,  conveys  a  distinct 
assurance  to  the  finer  organization  of  the  poet. 

We  talk  of  genius  as  if  it  were  a  mere  knack,  and  the 
poet  could  only  express  what  other  men  conceived.  But 
in  comparison  with  his  task,  the  poet  is  the  least  talent 
ed  of  any  ;  the  writer  of  prose  has  more  skill.  See  what 
talent  the  smith  has.  His  material  is  pliant  in  his  hands. 
When  the  poet  is  most  inspired,  is  stimulated  by  an  aura 
which  never  even  colors  the  afternoons  of  common  men 
then  his  talent  is  all  gone,  and  he  is  no  longer  a  poet 


FRIDAY.  363 

The  gods  do  not  grant  him  any  skill  more  than  another 
They  never  put  their  gifts  into  his  hands,  but  they  en- 
compass  and  sustain  him  with  their  breath. 

To  say  that  God  has  given  a  man  many  and  great 
talents,  frequently  means  that  he  has  brought  his  heav- 
f  is  down  within  reach  of  his  hands. 

When  the  poetic  frenzy  seizes  us,  we  run  and  scratch 
with  our  pen,  intent  only  on  worms,  calling  our  mates 
around  us,  like  the  cock,  and  delighting  in  the  dust  we 
make,  but  do  not  detect  where  the  jewel  lies,  which,  per 
haps,  we  have  in  the  mean  time  cast  to  a  distance,  or 
quite  covered  up  again. 

The  poet's  body  even  is  not  fed  like  other  men's,  but 
he  sometimes  tastes  the  genuine  nectar  and  ambrosia  of 
the  gods,  and  lives  a  divine  life.  By  the  healthful  and 
invigorating  thrills  of  inspiration  his  life  is  preserved  to 
a  serene  old  age. 

Some  poems  are  for  holidays  only.  They  are  polished 
and  sweet,  but  it  is  the  sweetness  of  sugar,  and  not  such 
as  toil  gives  to  sour  bread.  The  breath  with  which  the 
poet  utters  his  verse  must  be  that  by  which  he  lives. 

Great  prose,  of  equal  elevation,  commands  our  respect 
more  than  great  verse,  since  it  implies  a  more  perma 
nent  and  level  height,  a  life  more  pervaded  with  the 
grandeur  of  the  thought.  The  poet  often  only  makes  an 
irruption,  like  a  Parthian,  and  is  off  again,  shooting  while 
he  retreats ;  but  the  prose  writer  has  conquered  like  a 
Roman,  and  settled  colonies. 

The  true  poem  is  not  that  which  the  public  read. 
There  is  always  a  poem  not  printed  on  paper,  coincident 
with  the  production  of  this,  stereotyped  in  the  poet's  life. 
It  is  what  he  has  become  through  his  work.  Not  how  is 
tfae  idea  expressed  in  stone,  or  on  canvas  or  paper,  if 


(Jb4  A    WEEK. 

the  question,  but  how  far  it  has  obtained  form  and  er 
pression  in  the  life  of  the  artist.  His  true  work  will  not 
stand  in  any  prince's  gallery. 

My  life  has  been  the  poem  I  would  have  writ, 
But  I  could  not  both  live  and  utter  it. 

THE  POET'S  DELAY. 

In  vain  I  see  the  morning  rise, 

In  vain  observe  the  western  blaze, 
Who  idly  look  to  other  skies, 

Expecting  life  by  other  ways. 

Amidst  such  boundless  wealth  without, 

I  only  still  am  poor  within, 
The  birds  have  sung  their  summer  out, 

But  still  my  spring  does  not  begin. 

Shall  I  then  wait  the  autumn  wind, 

Compelled  to  seek  a  milder  day, 
And  leave  no  curious  nest  behind, 

No  woods  still  echoing  to  my  lay  ? 

This  raw  and  gusty  day,  and  the  creaking  of  the  oaks 
and  pines  on  shore,  reminded  us  of  more  northern  climes 
than  Greece,  and  more  wintry  seas  than  the  .^Egean. 

The  genuine  remains  of  Ossian,  or  those  ancient 
poems  which  bear  his  name,  though  of  less  fame  and 
extent,  are,  in  many  respects,  of  the  same  stamp  with 
the  Iliad  itself.  He  asserts  the  dignity  of  the  bard  no 
less  than  Homer,  and  in  his  era  we  hear  of  no  other 
priest  than  he.  It  will  not  avail  to  call  him  a  heathen, 
because  he  personifies  the  sun  and  addresses  it;  and 
what  if  his  heroes  did  "  worship  the  ghosts  of  their  fa 
thers,"  their  thin,  airy,  and  unsubstantial  forms?  we 
worship  but  the  ghosts  of  our  fathers  in  more  substantial' 
loirnn.  We  cannot  but  respect  the  vigorous  faith  of 


FRIDAY.  365 

those  htathen,  who  sternly  believed  somewhat,  arid  are 
inclined  to  say  to  the  critics,  who  are  offended  by  their 
superstitious  rites,  —  Don't  interrupt  these  men's  prayers. 
As  if  we  knew  more  about  human  life  and  a  God,  than 
the  heathen  and  ancients.  Does  English  theology  con 
tain  the  recent  discoveries ! 

Ossian  reminds  us  of  the  most  refined  and  rudest  eras, 
of  Homer,  Pindar,  Isaiah,  and  the  American  Indian.  In 
his  poetry,  as  in  Homer's,  only  the  simplest  and  most  en 
during  features  of  humanity  are  seen,  such  essential  parts 
of  a  man  as  Stonehenge  exhibits  of  a  temple ;  we  see 
the  circles  of  stone,  and  the  upright  shaft  alone.  The 
phenomena  of  life  acquire  almost  an  unreal  and  gigantic 
size  seen  through  his  mists.  Like  all  older  and  grander 
poetry,  it  is  distinguished  by  the  few  elements  in  the 
lives  of  its  heroes.  They  stand  on  the  heath,  between 
the  stars  and  the  earth,  shrunk  to  the  bones  and  sinews. 
The  earth  is  a  boundless  plain  for  their  deeds.  They 
lead  such  a  simple,  dry,  and  everlasting  life,  as  hardly 
needs  depart  with  the  flesh,  but  is  transmitted  entire  from 
age  to  age.  There  are  but  few  objects  to  distract  their 
sight,  and  their  life  is  as  unencumbered  as  the  course  of 
the  stars  they  gaze  at. 

"  The  wrathful  kings,  on  cairns  apart, 
Look  forward  from  behind  their  shields, 
And  mark  the  wandering  stars, 
That  brilliant  westward  move." 

It  does  not  cost  much  for  these  heroes  to  live ;  they  do 
not  want  much  furniture.  They  are  such  forms  of  men 
only  as  can  be  seen  afar  through  the  mist,  and  have  no 
costume  nor  dialect,  but  for  language  there  is  the  tongue 
itself,  and  for  costume  there  are  always  the  skins  of 
oeasts  and  the  bark  of  trees  to  be  had.  They  Mve  out 


8f>f)  A     WEEK. 

their  years  by  the  vigor  of  their  constitutions.  They 
survive  storms  and  the  spears  of  their  foes,  and  perform 
a  few  heroic  deeds,  and  then 

"  Mounds  will  answer  questions  of  them, 
For  many  future  years." 

Blind  and  infirm,  they  spend  the  remnant  of  their  days 
listening  to  the  lays  of  the  bards,  and  feeling  the  weap 
ons  which  laid  their  enemies  low,  and  when  at  length 
they  die,  by  a  convulsion  of  nature,  the  bard  allows  us 
a  short  and  misty  glance  into  futurity,  yet  as  clear,  per 
chance,  as  their  lives  had  been.  When  Mac-Roine  was 
slain, 

"  His  soul  departed  to  his  warlike  sires, 

To  follow  misty  forms  of  boars, 

In  tempestuous  islands  bleak." 

The  hero's  cairn  is  erected,  and  the  bard  sings  a  brief 
significant  strain,  which  will  suffice  for  epitaph  and  biog 
raphy. 

"  The  weak  will  find  his  bow  in  the  dwelling, 
The  feeble  will  attempt  to  bend  it." 

Compared  with  this  simple,  fibrous  life,  our  civilized 
history  appears  the  chronicle  of  debility,  of  fashion,  and 
the  arts  of  luxury.  But  the  civilized  man  misses  no  real 
refinement  in  the  poetry  of  the  rudest  era.  It  reminds 
him  that  civilization  does  but  dress  men.  It  makes  shoes, 
but  it  does  not  toughen  the  soles  of  the  feet.  It  makes 
cloth  of  finer  texture,  but  it  does  not  touch  the  skin. 
Insid3  the  civilized  man  stand  the  savage  still  in  the 
place  of  honor.  We  are  those  blue-eyed,  yellow-haired 
Saxons,  those  slender,  dark-haired  Normans. 

The  profession  of  the  bard  attracted  more  respect  ic 
those  days  from  the  importance  attached  to  fame.  It 


FRIDAY.  367 

was  his  province  to  record  the  deeds  of  heroes.  When 
Ossian  hears  the  traditions  of  inferior  bards,  he  ex 
claims,  — 

"I  straightway  seize  the  unfutile  tales, 
And  send  them  down  in  faithful  verse." 

His  philosophy  of  life  is  expressed  in  the  opening  of  the 
third  Duan  of  Ca-Lodin. 

"  Whence  have  sprung  the  things  that  are  ? 
And  whither  roll  the  passing  years? 
Where  does  Time  conceal  its  two  heads, 
In  dense  impenetrable  gloom, 
Its  surface  marked  with  heroes'  deeds  alone? 
I  view  the  generations  gone ; 
The  past  appears  but  dim  ; 
As  objects  by  the  moon's  faint  beams, 
Reflected  from  a  distant  lake. 
I  see,  indeed,  the  thunderbolts  of  war, 
But  there  the  nnmighty  joyless  dwell, 
All  those  who  send  not  down  their  deeds 
To  far,  succeeding  times." 

The  ignoble  warriors  die  and  are  forgotten ; 

u  Strangers  come  to  build  a  tower, 
And  throw  their  ashes  overhand  ; 
Some  rusted  swords  appear  in  dust  $ 
One,  bending  forward,  says, 
4  The  arms  belonged  to  heroes  gone  ; 
We  never  heard  their  praise  in  song.' " 

The  grandeur  of  the  similes  is  another  feature  which 
characterizes  great  poetry.  Ossian  seems  to  speak  a 
gigantic  and  universal  language.  The  images  and  pic 
tures  >ccupy  even  much  space  in  the  landscape,  as  if 
they  could  be  seen  only  from  the  sides  of  mountains,  and 
olains  with  a  wide  horizon,  or  across  arms  of  the  sea. 
The  machinery  is  so  massive  that  it  cannot  be  less  than 


368  A    WEEK. 

natural.  Oivana  says  to  the  spirit  of  her  father, "  Gray- 
haired  Torkil  of  Torne,"  seen  in  the  skies, 

"  Thou  glidest  away  like  receding  ships." 

So  when  the  hosts  of  Fingal  and  'Starne  approach  to 

battle, 

"  With  murmurs  loud,  like  rivers  far, 
The  race  of  Torne  hither  moved." 

And  when  compelled  to  retire, 

"  dragging  his  spear  behind, 
Cudulin  sank  in  the  distant  wood, 
Like  a  fire  upblazing  ere  it  dies." 

Nor  did  Fingal  want  a  proper  audience  when  he  spoke 

"A  thousand  orators  inclined 
To  hear  the  lay  of  Fingal." 

The  threats  too  would  have  deterred  a  man.  Vengeance 
and  terror  were  real.  Trenmore  threatens  the  young 
warrior  whom  he  meets  on  a  foreign  strand, 

"  Thy  mother  shall  find  thee  pale  on  the  shore, 
While  lessening  on  the  waves  she  spies 
The  sails  of  him  who  slew  her  son." 

If  Ossian's  heroes  weep,  it  is  from  excess  of  strength, 
and  not  from  weakness,  a  sacrifice  or  libation  of  fertile 
natures,  like  the  perspiration  of  stone  in  summer's  heat. 
We  hardly  know  that  tears  have  been  shed,  and  it  seems 
as  if  weeping  were  proper  only  for  babes  and  heroes. 
Their  joy  and  their  sorrow  are  made  of  one  stuff,  like 
rain  and  snow,  the  rainbow  and  the  mist.  When  Fillan 
was  worsted  in  fight,  and  ashamed  in  the  presence  of 
Fingal, 


FRIDAY.  369 

"  He  strode  away  forthwith, 
And  bent  in  grief  above  a  stream, 
His  cheeks  bedewed  with  tears. 
From  time  to  time  the  thistles  gray 
He  lopped  with  his  inverted  lance." 

Crodar,  blind  and  old,  receives  Ossian,  son    >f  Fingal, 
who  comes  to  aid  him  in  war;  — 

441  My  eyes  have  failed,'  says  he,  '  Crodar  is  blind, 
Is  thy  strength  like  that  of  thy  fathers  ? 
Stretch,  Ossian,  thine  arm  to  the  hoary-haired.' 

I  gave  my  arm  to  the  king. 
The  aged  hero  seized  my  hand; 
He  heaved  a  heavy  sigh; 
Tears  flowed  incessant  down  his  cheek. 
4  Strong  art  thou,  son  of  the  mighty, 
Though  not  so  dreadful  as  Morven's  prince. 

Let  my  feast  be  spread  in  the  hall, 
Let  every  sweet- voiced  minstrel  sing; 
Great  is  he  who  is  within  my  walls, 
Sons  of  wave-echoing  Croma.'  " 

Even  Ossian  himself,  the  hero-bard,  pays  tribute  to  the 
superior  strength  of  his  father  Fingal. 

44  How  beauteous,  mighty  man,  was  thy  mind, 
Why  succeeded  Ossian  without  its  strength?" 


While  we  sailed  fleetly  before  the  wind,  with  the  river 
gurgling  under  our  stern,  the  thoughts  of  autumn  coursed 
as  steadily  through  our  minds,  and  we  observed  less  what 
was  passing  on  the  shore,  than  the  dateless  associations 
and  impressions  which  the  season  awakened,  anticipating 
in  some  measure  the  progress  of  the  year. 

I  hearing  get,  who  had  but  ears, 

And  sight,  who  had  but  eyes  before, 
I  moments  live,  who  lived  but  years, 

And  truth  discern,  who  knew  but  learning's  lore. 
16*  x 


370  A    WEEK. 

Sitting  with  our  faces  now  up  stream,  we  studied  the 
landscape  by  degrees,  as  one  unrolls  a  map,  rock,  tree, 
house,  hill,  and  meadow,  assuming  new  and  varying  posi 
tions  as  wind  and  water  shifted  the  scene,  and  there  was 
variety  enough  for  our  entertainment  in  the  metamor 
phoses  of  the  simplest  objects.  Viewed  from  this  side 
the  scenery  appeared  new  to  us. 

The  most  familiar  sheet  of  water  viewed  from  a  new 
hill-top,  yields  a  novel  and  unexpected  pleasure.  When 
we  have  travelled  a  few  miles,  we  do  not  recognize  the 
profiles  even  of  the  hills  which  overlook  our  native  vil 
lage,  and  perhaps  no  man  is  quite  familiar  with  the 
horizon  as  seen  from  the  hill  nearest  to  his  house,  and 
can  recall  its  outline  distinctly  when  in  the  valley.  We 
do  not  commonly  know,  beyond  a  short  distance,  which 
way  the  hills  range  which  take  in  our  houses  and  farms 
in  their  sweep.  As  if  our  birth  had  at  first  sundered 
things,  and  we  had  been  thrust  up  through  into  nature 
like  a  wedge,  and  not  till  the  wound  heals  and  the  scar 
disappears,  do  we  begin  to  discover  where  we  are,  and 
that  nature  is  one  and  continuous  everywhere.  It  is 
an  important  epoch  when  a  man  who  has  always  lived 
on  the  east  side  of  a  mountain,  and  seen  it  in  the  west, 
travels  round  and  sees  it  in  the  east.  Yet  the  universe 
is  a  sphere  whose  centre  is  wherever  there  is  intelligence. 
The  sun  is  not  so  central  as  a  man.  Upon  an  isolated 
hill-top,  in  an  open  country,  we  seem  to  ourselves  to  be 
standing  on  the  boss  of  an  immense  shield,  the  immediate 
landscape  being  apparently  depressed  below  the  more 
remote,  and  rising  gradually  to  the  horizon,  which  is  the 
rim  of  the  shield,  villas,  steeples,  forests,  mountains,  one 
above  another,  till  they  are  swallowed  up  in  the  heavens 
The  most  distant  mountains  in  the  horizon  appear  to 


FRIDAY.  371 

rise  directly  from  the  shore  of  that  lake  in  the  wocds  by 
which  we  chance  to  be  standing,  while  from  the  motin- 
tain-top,  not  only  this,  but  a  thousand  nearer  and  larger 
lakes,  are  equally  unobserved. 

Seen  through  this  clear  atmosphere,  the  works  of  the 
farmer,  his  ploughing  and  reaping,  had  a  beauty  to  our 
eyes  which  he  never  saw.  How  fortunate  were  TSC  who 
did  not  own  an  acre  of  these  shores,  who  had  not  re 
nounced  our  title  to  the  whole.  One  who  knew  how  to 
appropriate  the  true  value  of  this  world  would  be  the 
poorest  man  in  it.  The  poor  rich  man !  all  he  has  is 
what  he  has  bought.  What  I  see  is  mine.  I  am  a  large 
owner  in  the  Merrimack  intervals. 

Men  dig  and  dive  bnt  cannot  my  wealth  spend, 

Who  yet  no  partial  store  appropriate, 
Who  no  armed  ship  into  the  Indies  send, 

To  rob  me  of  my  orient  estate. 

He  is  the  rich  man,  and  enjoys  the  fruits  of  riches,  who 
summer  and  winter  forever  can  find  delight  in  his  own 
thoughts.  Buy  a  farm !  What  have  I  to  pay  for  a  farm 
which  a  farmer  will  take  ? 

When  I  visit  again  some  haunt  of  my  youth,  I  am 
glad  to  find  that  nature  wears  so  well.  The  landscape 
is  indeed  something  real,  and  solid,  and  sincere,  and  I 
have  not  put  my  foot  through  it  yet.  There  is  a  pleas 
ant  tract  on  the  bank  of  the  Concord,  called  Conantum, 
which  I  have  in  my  mind;  —  the  old  deserted  farm 
house,  the  desolate  pasture  with  its  bleak  cliff,  the  open 
wood,  the  river-reach,  the  green  meadow  in  the  midst, 
and  the  moss-grown  wild-apple  orchard,  —  places  where 
one  may  have  many  thoughts  and  not  decide  anything. 
It  is  a  scene  which  I  can  not  only  remember,  as  I  might 
a  vision,  but  when  I  will  can  bodily  revisit,  and  find  it 


372  A    WKEK. 

even  so,  unaccountable,  yet  unpretending  in  its  pleasant 
dreariness.  When  my  thoughts  are  sensible  of  change, 
I  Jove  to  see  and  sit  on  rocks  which  I  have  known,  and 
pry  into  their  moss,  and  see  unchangeableness  so  estab 
lished.  I  not  yet  gray  on  rocks  forever  gray,  I  no 
longer  green  under  the  evergreens.  There  is  something 
even  in  the  lapse  of  time  by  which  time  recovers  itself. 

As  we  have  said,  it  proved  a  cool  as  well  as  breezy 
day,  and  by  the  time  we  reached  Penichook  Brook  we 
were  obliged  to  sit  muffled  in  our  cloaks,  while  the  wind 
and  current  carried  us  along.  We  bounded  swiftly  over 
the  rippling  surface,  far  by  many  cultivated  lands  and 
the  ends  of  fences  which  divided  innumerable  farms, 
with  hardly  a  thought  for  the  various  lives  which  they 
separated ;  now  by  long  rows  of  alders  or  groves  of 
pines  or  oaks,  and  now  by  some  homestead  where  the 
women  and  children  stood  outside  to  gaze  at  us,  till  w« 
had  swept  out  of  their  sight,  and  beyond  the  limit  of 
their  longest  Saturday  ramble.  We  glided  past  the 
mouth  of  the  Nashua,  and  not  long  after,  of  Salmon 
Brook,  without  more  pause  than  the  wind. 

Salmon  Brook, 
Penichook, 

Ye  sweet  waters  of  my  brain, 
When  shall  I  look, 
Or  cast  the  hook, 
In  your  waves  again  ? 

Silver  eels, 
Wooden  creels, 

These  the  baits  that  still  allure, 
And  dragon-fly 
That  floated  by, 
May  they  still  endure  ? 

The  shadows  chased  one  another  swiftly  over  wood 


FRIDAY.  373 

mid  meadow,  and  their  alternation  harmonized  with  our 
mood.  We  could  distinguish  the  clouds  which  cast  each 
one,  though  never  so  high  in  the  heavens.  When  a 
shadow  flits  across  the  landscape  of  the  soul,  where  is 
the  substance  ?  Probably,  if  we  were  wise  enough,  we 
should  see  to  what  virtue  we  are  indebted  for  any 
happier  moment  we  enjoy.  No  doubt  we  have  earned 
it  at  some  time ;  for  the  gifts  of  Heaven  are  never  quite 
gratuitous.  The  constant  abrasion  and  decay  of  our 
lives  makes  the  soil  of  our  future  growth.  The  wood 
which  we  now  mature,  when  it  becomes  virgin  mould, 
determines  the  character  of  our  second  growth,  whether 
that  be  oaks  or  pines.  Every  man  casts  a  shadow ;  not 
his  body  only,  but  his  imperfectly  mingled  spirit.  This 
is  his  grief.  Let  him  turn  which  way  he  will,  it  falls 
opposite  to  the  sun  ;  short  at  noon,  long  at  eve.  Did 
you  never  see  it?  —  But,  referred  to  the  sun,  it  is  widest 
at  its  base,  which  is  no  greater  than  his  own  opacity. 
The  divine  light  is  diffused  almost  entirely  around  us, 
and  by  means  of  the  refraction  of  light,  or  else  by 
a  certain  self-luminousness,  or,  as  some  will  have  it, 
transparency,  if  we  preserve  ourselves  untarnished,  we 
are  able  to  enlighten  our  shaded  side.  At  any  rate,  our 
darkest  grief  has  that  bronze  color  of  the  moon  eclipsed. 
There  is  no  ill  which  may  not  be  dissipated,  like  the 
dark,  if  you  let  in  a  stronger  light  upon  it.  Shadows, 
referred  to  the  source  of  light,  are  pyramids  whose 
bases  are  never  greater  than  those  of  the  substances 
which  cast  them,  but  light  is  a  spherical  congeries  of 
pyramids,  whose  very  apexes  are  the  sun  itself,  and 
hence  the  system  shines  with  uninterrupted  light.  But 
If  the  light  we  use  is  but  a  paltry  and  narrow  taper, 
most  objects  will  cast  a  shadow  wider  than  them- 
telves. 


ft4  A     tt'EKK. 

Tlie  places  where  we  had  stopped  or  spent  the  night 
in  our  way  up  the  river,  had  already  acquired  a  slight 
historical  interest  for  us;  for  many  upward  day's  voyag 
ing  were  unravelled  in  this  rapid  downward  passage. 
When  one  landed  to  stretch  his  limbs  by  walking,  he 
Boon  found  himself  falling  behind  his  companion,  and 
was  obliged  to  take  advantage  of  the  curves,  and  ford 
the  brooks  and  ravines  in  haste,  to  recover  his  ground. 
Already  the  banks  and  the  distant  meadows  wore  a 
sober  and  deepened  tinge,  for  the  September  air  had 
shorn  them  of  their  summer's  pride. 

"And  what's  a  life?     The  flourishing  array 
Of  the  proud  summer  meadow,  which  to-day 
Wears  her  green  plush,  and  is  to-morrow  hay." 

The  air  was  really  the  "  fine  element "  which  the  poets 
describe.  It  had  a  finer  and  sharper  grain,  seen  against 
the  russet  pastures  and  meadows,  than  before,  as  if 
cleansed  of  the  summer's  impurities. 

Having  passed  the  New  Hampshire  line  and  reached 
the  Horseshoe  Interval  in  Tyngsborough,  where  there  is 
a  high  and  regular  second  bank,  we  climbed  up  this  in 
haste  to  get  a  nearer  sight  of  the  autumnal  flowers, 
asters,  golden-rod,  and  yarrow,  and  blue-curls  (Trichos- 
tema  dichotoma),  humble  roadside  blossoms,  and,  linger 
ing  still,  the  harebell  and  the  Rhexia  Virginica.  The 
ast,  growing  in  patches  of  lively  pink  flowers  on  the 
edge  of  the  meadows,  had  almost  too  gay  an  appearance 
for  the  rest  of  the  landscape,  like  a  pink  ribbon  on  the 
bonnet  of  a  Puritan  woman.  Asters  and  golden- rods 
were  the  livery  which  nature  wore  at  present.  The 
latter  alone  expressed  all  the  ripeness  of  the  season,  and 
ihed  their  mellow  lustre  over  the  fields,  as  if  the  now 


FRIDAY.  375 

declining  summer's  sun  had  bequeathed  its  hues  to  them. 
It  is  the  floral  solstice  a  little  after  midsummer,  when 
the  particles  of  golden  light,  the  sun-dust,  have,  as  it 
were,  fallen  like  seeds  on  the  earth,  and  produced  these 
blossoms.  On  every  hillside,  and  in  every  valley,  stood 
countless  asters,  coreopses,  tansies,  golden-rods,  and  the 
whole  race  of  yellow  flowers,  like  Brahminical  devotees, 
turning  steadily  with  their  luminary  from  morning  till 
night. 

"  I  see  the  golden-rod  shine  bright, 

As  sun-showers  at  the  birth  of  day, 
A  golden  plume  of  yellow  light, 

That  robs  the  Day-god's  splendid  ray. 

"  The  aster's  violet  rays  divide 

The  bank  with  many  stars  for  me, 
And  yarrow  in  blanch  tints  is  dyed, 
As  moonlight  floats  across  the  sea. 

"  I  see  the  emerald  woods  prepare 

To  shed  their  vestiture  once  more, 
And  distant  elm-trees  spot  the  air 
With  yellow  pictures  softly  o'er. 

"  No  more  the  water-lily's  pride 

In  milk-white  circles  swims  content, 
No  more  the  blue-weed's  clusters  ride 
And  mock  the  heavens'  element. 

"  Autumn,  thy  wreath  and  mine  are  blent 

With  the  same  colors,  for  to  me 
A  richer  sky  than  all  is  lent, 

While  fades  my  dream-like  company. 

**  Our  skies  glow  purple,  but  the  wind 

Sobs  chill  through  green  trees  and  bright  grass, 
To-day  shines  fair,  and  lurk  behind 
The  times  that  into  winter  pass. 


'  So  fair  we  seem,  so  cold  we  are, 
So  fast  we  hasten  to  uecay, 


376  A    WEEK. 

Yet  through  our  night  glows  many  a  star, 
That  still  shall  claim  its  sunny  day." 

So  sang  a  Concord  poet  once. 

There  is  a  peculiar  interest  belonging  to  the  still  later 
flowers,  which  abide  with  us  the  approach  of  winter. 
There  is  something  witch-like  in  the  appearance  of  the 
witch-hazel,  which  blossoms  late  in  October  and  in  No 
vember,  with  its  irregular  and  angular  spray  and  petals 
like  furies'  hair,  or  small  ribbon  streamers.  Its  blos 
soming,  too,  at  this  irregular  period,  when  other  shrubs 
have  lost  their  leaves,  as  well  as  blossoms,  looks  like 
witches'  craft.  Certainly  it  blooms  in  no  garden  of 
man's.  There  is  a  whole  fairy-land  on  the  hillside 
where  it  grows. 

Some  have  thought  that  the  gales  do  not  at  present 
waft  to  the  voyager  the  natural  and  original  fragrance 
of  the  land,  such  as  the  early  navigators  described,  and 
that  the  loss  of  many  odoriferous  native  plants,  sweet- 
scented  grasses  and  medicinal  herbs,  which  formerly 
sweetened  the  atmosphere,  and  rendered  it  salubrious, 
—  by  the  grazing  of  cattle  and  the  rooting  of  swine,  is 
the  source  of  many  diseases  which  now  prevail ;  the 
earth,  say  they,  having  been  long  subjected  to  extremely 
artificial  and  luxurious  modes  of  cultivation,  to  gratify 
the  appetite,  converted  into  a  stye  and  hot-bed,  where 
men  for  profit  increase  the  ordinary  decay  of  nature. 

According  to  the  record  of  an  old  inhabitant  of 
Tyngsborough,  now  dead,  whose  farm  we  were  now 
gliding  past,  one  of  the  greatest  freshets  on  this  rivei 
took  place  in  October,  1785,  and  its  height  was  marked 
by  a  nail  driven  into  an  apple-tree  behind  his  house 


FRIDAY.  377 

One  of  his  descendants  has  shown  this  to  me,  and  1 
judged  it  to  be  at  least  seventeen  or  eighteen  feet  above 
the  level  of  the  river  at  the  time.  According  to  Barber, 
the  river  rose  twenty-one  feet  above  the  common  high- 
water  mark,  at  Bradford  in  the  year  1818.  Before  the 
Lowell  and  Nashua  railroad  was  built,  the  engineer 
made  inquiries  of  the  inhabitants  along  the  banks  as  to 
how  high  they  had  known  the  river  to  rise.  When  ho 
came  to  this  house  he  was  conducted  to  the  apple-tree, 
and  as  the  nail  was  not  then  visible,  the  lady  of  the 
house  placed  her  hand  on  the  trunk  where  she  said  that 
she  remembered  the  nail  to  have  been  from  her  child 
hood.  In  the  mean  while  the  old  man  put  his  arm  inside 
the  tree,  which  was  hollow,  and  felt  the  point  of  the  nail 
sticking  through,  and  it  was  exactly  opposite  to  her 
hand.  The  spot  is  now  plainly  marked  by  a  notch  in 
the  bark.  But  as  no  one  else  remembered  the  river  to 
have  risen  so  high  as  this,  the  engineer  disregarded  this 
statement,  and  I  learn  that  there  has  since  been  a  freshet 
which  rose  within  nine  inches  of  the  rails  at  Biscuit 
Brook,  and  such  a  freshet  as  that  of  1785  would  have 
covered  the  railroad  two  feet  deep. 

The  revolutions  of  nature  tell  as  fine  tales,  and  make 
as  interesting  revelations,  on  this  river's  banks,  as  on 
the  Euphrates  or  the  Nile.  This  apple-tree,  which 
stands  within  a  few  rods  of  the  river,  is  called  "  Elisha's 
apple-tree,"  from  a  friendly  Indian,  who  was  anciently 
in  the  service  of  Jonathan  Tyng,  and,  with  one  other 
man,  was  killed  here  by  his  own  race  in  one  of  ihe  In 
dian  wars, —  the  particulars  of  which  affair  were  told 
.  s  on  the  spot.  He  was  buried  close  by,  no  one  knew 
exactly  where,  but  in  the  flood  of  1785,  so  great  a 
weight  of  water  standing  over  the  gravs,  c/aused  the 


378  A     WEEK. 

earth  to  settle  where  it  had  once  been  disturbed,  and 
when  the  flood  went  down,  a  sunken  spot,  exactly  of  the 
form  and  size  of  the  grave,  revealed  its  locality  ;  but 
this  was  now  lost  again,  and  no  future  flood  can  detect 
it;  yet,  no  doubt,  Nature  will  know  how  to  point  it  out 
in  due  time,  if  it  be  necessary,  by  methods  yet  more 
searching  and  unexpected.  Thus  there  is  not  only  the 
crisis  when  the  spirit  ceases  to  inspire  and  expand  the 
body,  marked  by  a  fresh  mound  in  the  churchyard,  but 
there  is  also  a  crisis  when  the  body  ceases  to  take  up 
room  as  such  in  nature,  marked  by  a  fainter  depression 
in  the  earth. 

We  sat  awhile  to  rest  us  here  upon  the  brink  of  the 
western  bank,  surrounded  by  the  glossy  leaves  of  the 
red  variety  of  the  mountain  laurel,  just  above  the  head 
of  Wicasuck  Island,  where  we  could  observe  some  scows 
which  were  loading  with  clay  from  the  opposite  shore, 
and  also  overlook  the  grounds  of  the  farmer,  of  whom  I 
have  spoken,  who  once  hospitably  entertained  us  for  a 
night.  He  had  on  his  pleasant  farm,  besides  an  abun 
dance  of  the  beach-plum,  or  Prunus  littoralis,  which 
grew  wild,  the  Canada,  plum  under  cultivation,  fine 
Porter  apples,  some  peaches,  and  large  patches  of  musk 
And  water  melons,  which  he  cultivated  for  the  Lowell 
market.  Elisha's  apple-tree,  too,  bore  a  native  fruit, 
which  was  prized  by  the  family.  lie  raised  the  blood 
peach,  which,  as  he  showed  us  with  satisfaction,  was 
more  like  the  oak  in  the  color  of  its  bark  and  in  the  set 
ting  of  its  branches,  and  was  less  liable  to  break  down 
under  the  weight  of  the  fruit,  or  the  snow,  than  other 
varieties.  It  was  of  slower  growth,  and  its  branches 
strong  and  tough.  There,  also,  was  his  nursery  of  na 
tive  apple-Uses,  thickly  set  upon  the  bank,  which  coa* 


379 

but  little  care,  and  which  he  sold  to  the  neighboring  far 
mers  when  they  were  five  or  six  years  old.  To  see  a 
single  peach  upon  its  stem  makes  an  impression  of  para 
disaical  fertility  and  luxury.  This  reminded  us  even  of 
an  old  Roman  farm,  as  described  by  Varro :  —  Cresar 
Vopiscus  ^Edilicius,  when  he  pleaded  before  the  Cen 
sors,  said  that  the  grounds  of  Rosea  were  the  garden 
(sumen  the  tid-bit)  of  Italy,  in  which  a  pole  being  left 
would  not  be  visible  the  day  after,  on  account  of  the 
growth  of  the  herbage."  This  soil  may  not  have  been 
remarkably  fertile,  yet  at  this  distance  we  thought  that 
this  anecdote  might  be  told  of  the  Tyngsborough  farm. 

When  we  passed  Wicasuck  Island,  there  was  a  pleas 
ure-boat  containing  a  youth  and  a  maiden  on  the  island 
brook,  which  we  were  pleased  to  see,  since  it  proved 
that  there  were  some  hereabouts  to  whom  our  excursion 
would  not  be  wholly  strange.  Before  this,  a  canal-boat 
man,  of  whom  we  made  some  inquiries  respecting  Wica 
suck  Island,  and  who  told  us  that  it  was  disputed  prop 
erty,  suspected  that  we  had  a  claim  upon  it,  and  though 
we  assured  him  that  all  this  was  news  to  us,  and  ex 
plained,  as  well  as  we  could,  why  we  had  come  to  see  it, 
he  believed  not  a  word  of  it,  and  seriously  offered  us 
one  hundred  dollars  for  our  title.  The  only  other  small 
boats  which  we  met  with  were  used  to  pick  up  drift 
wood.  Some  of  the  poorer  class  along  the  stream  col 
lect,  in  this  way,  all  the  fuel  which  they  require.  While 
one  of  us  landed  not  far  from  this  island  to  forage  for 
provisions  among  the  farm-houses  whose  roofs  we  saw, 
for  our  supply  was  now  exhausted,  the  other,  sitting  in 
the  boat,  which  was  moored  to  th-3  shore,  was  left  alone 
to  his  reflections. 

If  there  is  nothing  new  on  the  earth,  still  the  traveller 


380  A     WKKK. 

always  has  a  resource  in  the  skies.  They  are  constantly 
turning  a  new  page  to  view.  The  wind  sets  the  types 
on  this  blue  ground,  and  the  inquiring  may  always  ead 
a  new  truth  there.  There  are  things  there  written  with 
such  fine  and  subtile  tinctures,  paler  than  the  juice  of 
limes,  that  to  the  diurnal  eye  they  leave  no  trace,  and 
only  the  chemistry  of  night  reveals  them.  Every  man's 
daylight  firmament  answers  in  his  mind  to  the  brightness 
of  the  vision  in  his  starriest  hour. 

These  continents  and  hemispheres  are  soon  run  over, 
but  an  always  unexplored  and  infinite  region  makes  off 
on  every  side  from  the  mind,  further  than  to  sunset,  and 
we  can  make  no  highway  or  beaten  track  into  it,  but  the 
grass  immediately  springs  up  in  the  path,  for  we  travel 
there  chiefly  with  our  wings. 

Sometimes  we  see  objects  as  through  a  thin  haze,  in 
their  eternal  relations,  and  they  stand  like  Palenque 
and  the  Pyramids,  and  we  wonder  who  set  them  up, 
and  for  what  purpose.  If  we  see  the  reality  in  things, 
of  what  moment  is  the  superficial  and  apparent  longer? 
What  are  the  earth  and  all  its  interests  beside  the  deep 
Bunnise  which  pierces  and  scatters  them  ?  While  I  sit 
here  listening  to  the  waves  which  ripple  and  break  ou 
this  shore,  I  am  absolved  from  all  obligation  to  the  past, 
and  the  council  of  nations  may  reconsider  its  votes. 
The  grating  of  a  pebble  annuls  them.  Still  occasionally 
in  my  dreams  I  remember  that  rippling  water. 

Oft,  as  I  turn  me  on  my  pillow  o'er, 
I  hear  the  lapse  of  waves  upon  the  shore, 
Distinct  as  if  it  were  at  broad  noonday, 
And  I  were  drifting  down  from  Nashua. 

With  a  bending  sail  we  glided  rapidly  by  Tyngsborougb 
and  Chelmsford,  each  holding  in  one  hand  half  of  a  tar* 


FRIDAY.  381 

country  apple-pie  which  we  had  purchased  to  celebrate 
our  return,  and  in  the  other  a  fragment  of  the  newspaper 
in  which  it  was  wrapped,  devouring  these  with  divided 
relish,  and  learning  the  news  which  had  transpired  since 
we  sailed.  The  river  here  opened  into  a  broad  and 
straight  reach  of  great  length,  which  we  bounded  merrily 
over  before  a  smacking  breeze,  with  a  devil-may-care 
look  in  our  faces,  and  our  boat  a  white  bone  in  its  mouth, 
and  a  speed  which  greatly  astonished  some  scow  boat 
men  whom  we  met.  The  wind  in  the  horizon  rolled  like 
a  flood  over  valley  and  plain,  and  every  tree  bent  to  the 
blast,  and  the  mountains  like  school-boys  turned  their 
cheeks  to  it.  They  were  great  and  current  motions,  the 
flowing  sail,  the  running  stream,  the  waving  tree,  the 
roving  wind.  The  north- wind  stepped  readily  into  the 
harness  which  we  had  provided,  and  pulled  us  along  with 
good  will.  Sometimes  we  sailed  as  gently  and  steadily 
as  the  olouds  overhead,  watching  the  receding  shores  and 
the  motions  of  our  sail ;  the  play  of  its  pulse  so  like  our 
own  lives,  so  thin  and  yet  so  full  of  life,  so  noiseless  when 
it  labored  hardest,  so  noisy  and  impatient  when  least  ef 
fective  ;  now  bending  to  some  generous  impulse  of  the 
breeze,  and  then  fluttering  and  flapping  with  a  kind  of 
human  suspense.  It  was  the  scale  on  which  the  varying 
temperature  of  distant  atmospheres  was  graduated,  and 
it  was  some  attraction  for  us  that  the  breeze  it  played 
with  had  been  out  of  doors  so  long.  Thus  we  sailed,  not 
being  able  to  fly,  but  as  next  best,  making  a  long  furrow 
in  the  fields  of  the  Merrimack  toward  our  home,  with  our 
wings  spread,  but  never  lifting  our  heel  from  the  watery 
trench ;  gracefully  ploughing  homeward  with  our  brisk 
and  willing  team,  wind  and  stream,  pulling  together,  the 
former  yet  a  wild  steer,  yoked  to  his  more  sedate  fellow 


382  A    WEEK. 

It  was  very  near  flying,  as  when  the  duck  rushes  through 
the  water  with  an  impulse  of  her  wings,  throwing  the 
spray  about  hei  before  she  can  rise.  How  we  had  stuck 
fast  if  drawn  up  but  a  few  feet  on  the  shore ! 

When  we  reached  the  great  bend  just  above  Middle 
sex,  where  the  river  runs  east  thirty-five  miles  to  the 
sea,  we  at  length  lost  the  aid  of  this  propitious  wind, 
though  we  contrived  to  make  one  long  and  judicious  tack 
carry  us  nearly  to  the  locks  of  the  canal.  We  were  here 
locked  through  at  noon  by  our  old  friend,  the  lover  of 
the  higher  mathematics,  who  seemed  glad  to  see  us  safe 
back  again  through  so  many  locks ;  but  we  did  not  stop 
to  consider  any  of  his  problems,  though  we  could  cheer 
fully  have  spent  a  whole  autumn  in  this  way  another 
time,  and  never  have  asked  what  his  religion  was.  It  is 
so  rare  to  meet  with  a  man  out-doors  who  cherishes  a 
worthy  thought  in  his  mind,  which  is  independent  of  the 
labor  of  his  hands.  Behind  every  man's  busy-ness  there 
should  be  a  level  of  undisturbed  serenity  and  industry, 
as  within  the  reef  encircling  a  coral  isle  there  is  always 
an  expanse  of  still  water,  where  the  depositions  are  going 
on  which  will  finally  raise  it  above  the  surface. 

The  eye  which  can  appreciate  the  naked  and  absolute 
beauty  of  a  scientific  truth  is  far  more  rare  than  that 
which  is  attracted  by  a  moral  one.  Few  detect  the  mo 
rality  in  the  former,  or  the  science  in  the  latter.  Aris 
totle  defined  art  to  be  \6yos  rov  epyov  avtv  vXrjs,  The  prin 
ciple  of  the  work  without  the  wood;  but  most  men  pre 
fer  to  have  some  of  the  wood  along  with  the  principle  ; 
they  demand  that  the  truth  be  clothed  in  flesh  and  blood 
and  the  warm  colors  of  life.  They  prefer  the  partia. 
statement  because  it  fits  and  measures  them  and  theil 


FRIDAY.  383 

commodities  best.     But  science  still  exists  everywhere 
as  the  sealer  of  weights  and  measures  at  least. 

We  have  heard  much  about  the  poetry  of  mathemat 
ics,  but  very  little  of  it  has  yet  been  sung.  The  ancients 
had  a  juster  notion  of  their  poetic  value  than  we.  The 
most  distinct  and  beautiful  statement  of  any  truth  must 
take  at  last  the  mathematical  form.  We  might  so  sim 
plify  the  rules  of  moral  philosophy,  as  well  as  of  arith 
metic,  that  one  formula  would  express  them  both.  All 
the  moral  laws  are  readily  translated  into  natural  phi 
losophy,  for  often  we  have  only  to  restore  the  primitive 
meaning  of  the  words  by  which  they  are  expressed,  or 
to  attend  to  their  literal  instead  of  their  metaphorical 
sense.  They  are  already  supernatural  philosophy.  The 
whole  body  of  what  is  now  called  moral  or  ethical  truth 
existed  in  the  golden  age  as  abstract  science.  Or,  if 
we  prefer,  we  may  say  that  the  laws  of  Nature  are  the 
purest  morality.  The  Tree  of  Knowledge  is  a  Tree  of 
Knowledge  of  good  and  evil.  He  is  not  a  true  man  of 
science  who  does  not  bring  some  sympathy  to  his  studies, 
and  expect  to  learn  something  by  behavior  as  well  as 
by  application.  It  is  childish  to  rest  in  the  discovery  of 
mere  coincidences,  or  of  partial  and  extraneous  laws. 
The  study  of  geometry  is  a  petty  and  idle  exercise  of  the 
mind,  if  it  is  applied  to  no  larger  system  than  the  starry 
one.  Mathematics  should  be  mixed  not  only  with  phys 
ics  but  with  ethics,  that  is  mixed  mathematics.  The  fact 
which  interests  us  most  is  the  life  of  the  naturalist.  The 
purest  science  is  still  biographical.  Nothing  will  dignify 
and  elevate  science  while  it  is  sundered  so  wholly  from 
the  moral  life  of  its  devotee,  and  he  professes  another 
religion  than  it  teaches,  and  worships  at  a  foreign  shrine. 
Anciently  the  faith  of  a  philosopher  tvas  identical  with 


884  A    WEEK. 

his  system,  or,  iii  other  words,  his  view  of  the  uni 
verse. 

My  friends  mistake  when  they  communicate  facts  to 
me  with  so  much  pains.  Their  presence,  even  their  ex 
aggerations  and  loose  statements,  are  equally  good  facts 
for  me.  I  have  no  respect  for  facts  even  except  when 
I  would  use  them,  and  for  the  most  part  I  am  indepen 
dent  of  those  which  I  hear,  and  can  afford  to  be  inaccu 
rate,  or,  in  other  words,  to  substitute  more  present  and 
pressing  facts  in  their  place. 

The  poet  uses  the  results  of  science  and  philosophy, 
and  generalizes  their  widest  deductions. 

The  process  of  discovery  is  very  simple.  An  unwea 
ried  and  systematic  application  of  known  laws  to  nature, 
causes  the  unknown  to  reveal  themselves.  Almost  any 
mode  of  observation  will  be  successful  at  last,  for  what 
is  most  wanted  is  method.  Only  let  something  be  deter 
mined  and  fixed  around  which  observation  may  rally. 
How  many  new  relations  a  foot-rule  alone  will  reveal, 
and  to  how  many  things  still  this  has  not  been  applied ! 
What  wonderful  discoveries  have  been,  and  may  still  be, 
made,  with  a  plumb-line,  a  level,  a  surveyor's  compass, 
a  thermometer,  or  a  barometer  !  Where  there  is  an  ob 
servatory  and  a  telescope,  we  expect  that  any  eyes  will 
see  new  worlds  at  once.  I  should  say  that  the  most  promi 
nent  scientific  men  of  our  country,  and  perhaps  of  this 
age,  are  either  serving  the  arts  and  not  pure  science,  or 
are  performing  faithful  but  quite  subordinate  labors  in 
particular  departments.  They  make  no  steady  and  sys 
tematic  approaches  to  the  central  fact.  A  discovery  is 
made,  and  at  once  the  attention  of  all  observers  is  dis 
tracted  to  that,  and  it  draws  many  analogous  discoveries 
in  its  train ;  as  if  their  work  were  not  already  laid  oui 


FRIDAY.  385 

for  them,  but  they  had  been  lying  on  their  oars.  There 
is  wanting  constant  and  accurate  observation  with  enough 
of  theory  to  direct  and  discipline  it. 

But,  above  all,  there  is  wanting  genius  Our  books 
of  science,  as  they  improve  in  accuracy,  are  in  danger 
of  losing  the  freshness  and  vigor  and  readiness  to  appre 
ciate  the  real  laws  of  Nature,  which  is  a  marked  merit 
in  the  ofttimes  false  theories  of  the  ancients.  I  am  at 
tracted  by  the  slight  pride  and  satisfaction,  the  emphatic 
and  even  exaggerated  style  in  which  some  of  the  older 
naturalists  speak  of  the  operations  of  Nature,  though 
they  are  better  qualified  to  appreciate  than  to  discrimi 
nate  the  facts.  Their  assertions  are  not  without  value 
when  disproved.  If  they  are  not  facts,  they  are  sugges 
tions  for  Nature  herself  to  act  upon.  "The  Greeks," 
says  Gesner,  "  had  a  common  proverb  (Aayos  KaOtv&ov) 
a  sleeping  hare,  for  a  dissembler  or  counterfeit ;  because 
the  hare  sees  when  she  sleeps  ;  for  this  is  an  admirable 
and  rare  work  of  Nature,  that  all  the  residue  of  her 
bodily  parts  take  their  rest,  but  the  eye  standeth  contin 
ually  sentinel." 

Observation  is  so  wide  awake,  and  facts  are  being  so 
rapidly  added  to  the  sum  of  human  experience,  that  it 
appears  as  if  the  theorizer  would  always  be  in  arrears, 
and  were  doomed  forever  to  arrive  at  imperfect  conclu 
sions  ;  but  the  power  to  perceive  a  law  is  equally  rare 
in  all  ages  of  the  world,  and  depends  but  little  on  the 
number  of  facts  observed.  The  senses  of  the  savage  will 
furnish  him  with  facts  enough  to  set  him  up  as  a  philoso 
pher.  The  ancients  can  still  speak  to  us  with  author 
ity,  even  on  the  themes  of  geology  and  chemistry,  though 
these  studies  are  thought  to  have  had  their  birth  in 
modern  times.  Much  Is  said  abo.it  the  progress  of  science 
17 


886  A    WEEK. 

in  these  centuries.  I  should  say^that  the  useful  results 
of  science  had  accumulated,  but  that  there  had  been  no 
accumulation  of  knowledge,  strictly  speaking,  for  poster 
ity  ;  for  knowledge  is  to  be  acquired  only  by  a  corre 
sponding  experience.  Plow  can  we  know  what  we  are 
told  merely  ?  Each  man  can  interpret  another's  expe 
rience  only  by  his  own.  We  read  that  Newton  discov 
ered  the  law  of  gravitation,  but  how  many  who  have 
heard  of  his  famous  discovery  have  recognized  the  same 
truth  that  he  did  ?  It  may  be  not  one.  The  revelation 
which  was  then  made  to  him  lias  not  been  superseded 
by  the  revelation  made  to  any  successor. 

We  see  the.  planet  fall, 
And  that  is  all. 

In  a  review  of  Sir  James  Clark  Ross's  Antarctic  Voy 
age  of  Discovery,  there  is  a  passage  which  shows  how 
far  a  body  of  men  are  commonly  impressed  by  an  object 
of  sublimity,  and  which  is  also  a  good  instance  of  the 
step  from  the  sublime  to  the  ridiculous.  After  describ 
ing  the  discovery  of  the  Antarctic  Continent,  at  first  seen 
a  hundred  miles  distant  over  fields  of  ice,  — stupendous 
ranges  of  mountains  from  seven  and  eight  to  twelve  and 
fourteen  thousand  feet  high,  covered  with  eternal  snow 
and  ice,  in  solitary  and  inaccessible  grandeur,  at  one 
time  the  weather  being  beautifully  clear,  and  the  sun 
shining  on  the  icy  landscape ;  a  continent  whose  islands 
only  are  accessible,  and  these  exhibited  "  not  the  small 
est  trace  of  vegetation,"  only  in  a  few  places  the  rocks 
protruding  through  their  icy  covering,  to  convince  the 
beholder  that  land  formed  the  nucleus,  and  that  it  wai 
not  an  iceberg ;  —  the  practical  British  reviewer  pro 
ceeds  thus,  sticking  to  his  last,  "  On  the  22d  of  January 


FRIDAY.  387 

afternoon,  the  Expedition  made  the  latitude  of  74°  20' 
and  by  7h  P.  M.,  having  ground  (ground !  where  did 
they  get  ground  ?)  to  believe  that  they  were  then  in  a 
higher  southern  latitude  than  had  been  attained  by  that 
enterprising  seaman,  the  late  Captain  James  Weddel, 
and  therefore  higher  than  all  their  predecessors,  an  ex 
tra  allowance  of  grog  was  issued  to  the  crews  as  a 
reward  for  their  perseverance." 

Let  not  us  sailors  of  late  centuries  take  upon  our 
selves  any  airs  on  account  of  our  Newtons  and  our  Cu- 
viers ;  we  deserve  an  extra  allowance  of  grog  only. 

We  endeavored  in  vain  to  persuade  the  wind  to  blow 
through  the  long  corridor  of  the  canal,  which  is  here 
cut  straight  through  the  woods,  and  were  obliged  to  re 
sort  to  our  old  expedient  of  drawing  by  a  cord.  When 
»ve  reached  the  Concord,  we  were  forced  to  row  once 
more  in  good  earnest,  with  neither  wind  nor  current  in 
our  favor,  but  by  this  time  the  rawness  of  the  day  had 
disappeared,  and  we  experienced  the  warmth  of  a  sum 
mer  afternoon.  This  change  in  the  weather  was  favor 
able  to  our  contemplative  mood,  and  disposed  us  to 
dream  yet  deeper  at  our  oars,  while  we  floated  in  imag 
ination  farther  down  the  stream  of  time,  as  we  had 
floated  down  the  stream  of  the  Merrimack,  to  poets  of 
a  milder  period  than  had  engaged  us  in  the  morning. 
Chelmsford  and  Billerica  appeared  like  old  English 
towns,  compared  with  Merrimack  and  Nashua,  and 
many  generations  of  civil  poets  might  have  lived  and 
»ung  here. 

What  a  contrast  between  the  stern  and  desolate  poetry 
of  Osaan,  and  that  of  Chaucer,  and  even  of  Shakespeare 


388  A    WKEK. 

and  Milton,  much  more  of  Dryden,  and  Pope,  and  Gray 
Our  summer  of  English  poetry  like  the  Greek  and 
Latin  before  it,  seems  well  advanced  toward  its  fall, 
and  laden  with  the  fruit  and  foliage  of  the  season,  will) 
bright  autumnal  tints,  but  soon  the  winter  will  scatter  its 
myriad  clustering  and  shading  leaves,  and  leave  only 
a  few  desolate  and  fibrous  boughs  to  sustain  the  snow 
and  rime,  and  creak  in  the  blasts  of^iges.  We  cannot 
escape  the  impression  that  the  Muse  has  stooped  a  little 
in  her  flight,  when  we  come  to  the  literature  of  civilized 
eras.  Now  first  we  hear  of  various  ages  and  styles  of 
poetry  ;  it  is  pastoral,  and  lyric,  and  narrative,  and  di 
dactic;  but  the  poetry  of  runic  monuments  is  of  one 
style,  and  for  every  age.  The  bard  has  in  a  great 
measure  lost  the  dignity  and  sacredness  of  his  office. 
Formerly  he  wa^s  called  a  seer,  but  now  it  is  thought 
that  one  man  sees  as  much  as  another.  He  has  no  lon 
ger  the  bardic  rage,  and  only  conceives  the  deed,  which 
he  formerly  stood  ready  to  perform.  Hosts  of  warriors 
earnest  for  battle  could  not  mistake  nor  dispense  with 
the  ancient  bard.  His  lays  were  heard  in  the  pauses  of 
the  fight.  There  was  no  danger  of  his  being  overlooked 
by  his  contemporaries.  But  now  the  hero  and  the  bard 
are  of  different  professions.  When  we  come  to  the 
pleasant  English  verse,  the  storms  have  all  cleared  a^vay 
and  it  will  never  thunder  and  lighten  more.  The  poet 
has  come  within  doors,  and  exchanged  the  forest  and 
crag  for  the  fireside,  the  hut  of  the  Gael,  and  Stone- 
heLge  with  its  circles  of  stones,  for  the  house  of  the 
Englishman.  No  hero  stands  at  the  door  prepared  to 
break  forth  into  song  or  heroic  action,  but  a  homely 
Englishman,  who  cultivates  the  art  of  poetry.  We  see 
the  comfortable  fireside,  and  hear  the  crackling  fagots  io 
all  the  verse. 


FRIDAY.  389 

Notwithstanding  the  broad  humanity  of  Chaucer,  and 
Jie  many  social  and  domestic  comforts  which  we  meet 
with  in  his  verse,  we  have  to  narrow  our  vision  some 
what  to  consider  him,  as  if  he  occupied  less  space  in  the 
landscape,  and  did  not  stretch  over  hill  and  valley  as 
Ossian  does.  Yet,  seen  from  the  side  of  posterity,  as 
the  father  of  English  poetry,  preceded  by  a  long  silence 
or  confusion  in  history,  unenlivened  by  any  strain  of 
pure  melody,  we  easily  come  to  reverence  him.  Pass 
ing  over  the  earlier  continental  poets,  since  we  are 
bound  to  the  pleasant  archipelago  of  English  poetry, 
Chaucer's  is  the  first  name  after  that  misty  weather  in 
which  Ossian  lived,  which  can  detain  us  long.  Indeed, 
though  he  represents  so  different  a  culture  and  society, 
he  may  be  regarded  as  in  many  respects  the  Homer  of 
the  English  poets.  Perhaps  he  is  the  youthfullest  of 
them  all.  We  return  to  him  as  to  the  purest  well,  the 
fountain  farthest  removed  from  the  highway  of  desuUory 
life.  He  is  so  natural  and  cheerful,  compared  with  later 
poets,  that  we  might  almost  regard  him  as  a  personifi 
cation  of  spring.  To  the  faithful  reader  his  muse  has 
even  given  an  aspect  to  his  times,  and  when  he  is  fresh 
from  perusing  him,  they  seem  related  to  the  golden  age. 
It  is  still  the  poetry  of  youth  and  life,  rather  than  of 
thought ;  and  though  the  moral  vein  is  obvious  and  con 
stant,  it  has  not  yet  banished  the  sun  and  daylight  from 
his  verse.  The  loftiest  strains  of  the  muse  are,  for  the 
most  part,  sublimely  plaintive,  and  not  a  carol  as  free 
as  nature's  The  content  which  the  sun  shines  to  cele 
brate  from  morning  to  evening,  is  unsung.  The  muse 
solaces  herself,  and  is  not  ravished  but  consoled.  There 
is  a  catastrophe  implied,  and  a  tragic  element  in  all  our 
reree,  and  less  of  the  lark  and  morning  dews,  thai?  of 


390  A     \VKKK. 

the  nightingale  and  evening  shades.  But  in  Homer 
and  Chaucer  there  is  more  of  the  innocence  and  serenity 
of  youth  than  in  the  more  modern  and  moral  poets. 
The  Iliad  is  not  Sabbath  but  morning  reading,  and  men 
cling  to  this  old  song,  because  they  still  have  moments 
of  unbaptized  and  uncommitted  life,  which  give  them 
an  appetite  for  more.  To  the  innocent  there  are  neither 
cherubim  nor  angels.  At  rare  intervals  we  rise  above 
the  necessity  of  virtue  into  an  unchangeable  morning 
light,  in  which  we  have  only  to  live  right  on  and  breathe 
the  ambrosial  air.  The  Iliad  represents  no  creed  nor 
opinion,  and  we  read  it  with  a  rare  sense  of  freedom 
and  irresponsibility,  as  if  we  trod  on  native  ground,  and 
were  autochthones  of  the  soil. 

Chaucer  had  eminently  the  habits  of  a  literary  man 
and  a  scholar.  There  were  never  any  times  so  stirring 
that  there  were  not  to  be  found  some  sedentary  still. 
He  was  surrounded  by  the  din  of  arms.  The  battles  of 
Ilallidon  Hill  and  Neville's  Cross,  and  the  still  more 
memorable  battles  of  Cressy  and  Poictiers,  were  fought 
in  his  youth ;  but  these  did  not  concern  our  poet  much, 
Wickliffe  and  his  reform  much  more.  He  regarded  him 
self  always  as  one  privileged  to  sit  and  converse  with 
books.  He  helped  to  establish  the  literary  class.  His 
character  as  one  of  the  fathers  of  the  English  language 
would  alone  make  his  works  important,  even  those  which 
have  little  poetical  merit.  He  was  as  simple  as  Words 
worth  in  preferring  his  homely  but  vigorous  Saxon 
tongue,  when  it  was  neglected  by  the  court,  and  had  not 
yet  attained  to  the  dignity  of  a  literature,  and  rendered  a 
similar  service  to  his  country  to  that  which  Dante  rea 
dered  to  Italy.  If  Greek  sufficeth  for  Greek,  and  Ara. 
bic  for  Arabian,  and  Hebrew  for  Jew,  and  Latin  foi 


FRIDAY.  391 

Latin,  then  English  shall  suffice  for  him,  for  any  of  these 
will  serve  to  teach  truth  "  right  as  divers  pathes  leaden 
divers  folke  the  right  waye  to  Rome."  In  the  Testa 
ment  of  Love  he  writes,  "  Let  then  clerkes  enditen  in 
Latin,  for  they  have  the  propertie  of  science,  and  the 
knowirige  in  that  facultie,  and  lette  Frenchmen  in  their 
Frenche  also  enditen  their  queinte  termes,  for  it  is 
kyndely  to  their  mouthes,  and  let  us  shewe  our  fantasies 
in  soche  wordes  as  we  lerneden  of  our  dames  tonge." 

He  will  know  how  to  appreciate  Chaucer  best,  who 
has  come  down  to  him  the  natural  way,  through  the 
meagre  pastures  of  Saxon  and  ante-Chaucerian  poetry  ; 
and  yet,  so  human  and  wise  he  appears  after  such  diet, 
that  we  are  liable  to  misjudge  him  still.  In  the  Saxon 
poetry  extant,  in  the  earliest  English,  and  the  contem 
porary  Scottish  poetry,  there  is  less  to  remind  the  reader 
of  the  rudeness  and  vigor  of  youth,  than  of  the  feeble 
ness  of  a  declining  age.  It  is  for  the  most  part  transla 
tion  of  imitation  merely,  with  only  an  occasional  and 
slight  tinge  of  poetry,  oftentimes  the  falsehood  and  ex 
aggeration  of  fable,  without  its  imagination  to  redeem 
it,  and  we  look  in  vain  to  find  antiquity  restored,  hu 
manized,  and  made  blithe  again  by  some  natural  sym 
pathy  between  it  and  the  present.  But  Chaucer  is  fresh 
and  modern  still,  and  no  dust  settles  on  his  true  pas 
sages.  It  lightens  along  the  line,  and  we  are  reminded 
that  flowers  have  bloomed,  and  birds  sung,  and  hearts 
Veaten  in  England.  Before  the  earnest  gaze  of  the 
reader,  the  rust  and  moss  of  time  gradually  drop  off, 
and  tii  original  green  life  is  revealed.  He  was  a  home 
ly  and  domestic  man,  and  did  breathe  quite  as  modern 
men  do. 

There  is  no  wisdom  tha>  can  take  place  of  humanity, 


392  A    WEEK. 

*nd  wo  find  that  in  Chaucer.  We  can  expand  at  last  in 
his  breadth,  and  we  think  that  we  could  have  been  that 
man's  acquaintance.  He  was  worthy  to  be  a  citizen  of 
England,  while  Petrarch  and  Boccacio  lived  in  Italy, 
and  Tell  and  Tamerlane  in  Switzerland  and  in  Asia, 
and  Bruce  in  Scotland,  and  Wickliffe,  and  Gower,  and 
Edward  the  Third,  and  John  of  Gaunt,  and  the  Black 
Prince,  were  his  own  countrymen  as  well  as  contempo 
raries  :  all  stout  and  stirring  names.  The  fame  of  Rogor 
Bacon  came  down  from  the  preceding  century,  and  the 
name  of  Dante  still  possessed  the  influence  of  a  living 
presence.  On  the  whole,  Chaucer  impresses  us  as  great 
er  than  his  reputation,  and  not  a  little  like  Homer  and 
Shakespeare,  for  he  would  have  held  up  his  head  in  their 
company.  Among  early  English  poets  he  is  the  land 
lord  and  host,  and  has  the  authority  of  such.  The  af 
fectionate  mention  which  succeeding  early  poets  make 
of  him,  coupling  him  with  Homer  and  Virgil,  is  to  be 
taken  into  the  account  in  estimating  his  character  and 
influence.  King  James  and  Dunbar  of  Scotland  speak 
of  him  with  more  love  and  reverence  than  any  modern 
author  of  his  predecessors  of  the  last  century.  The 
same  childlike  relation  is  without  a  parallel  now.  For 
the  most  part  we  read  him  without  criticism,  for  he  does 
lot  plead  his  own  cause,  but  speaks  for  his  readers,  and 
nas  that  greatness  of  trust  and  reliance  which  compels 
popularity.  lie  confides  in  the  reader,  and  speaks 
privily  with  him,  keeping  nothing  back.  And  in  return 
the  reader  has  great  confidence  in  him,  that  he  tells  nc 
lies,  and  reads  his  story  with  indulgence,  as  if  it  were 
the  circumlocution  of  a  cliild,  but  often  discovers  after 
wards  that  he  has  spoken  with  more  directness  and 
economy  of  words  than  a  sage.  He  is  never  heartless 


FRIDAY.  398 

"  For  first  the  thing  is  thought  within  the  hart, 
Er  any  word  out  from  the  mouth  astart." 

And  so  new  was  all  his  theme  in  those  days,  that  he  did 
not  have  to  invent,  but  only  to  tell. 

We  admire  Chaucer  for  his  sturdy  English  wit.  The 
easy  height  he  speaks  from  in  his  Prologue  to  the  3an~ 
terbury  Tales,  as  if  he  were  equal  to  any  of  the  com-' 
pany  there  assembled,  is  as  good  as  any  particular  ex 
cellence  in  it.  But  though  it  is  full  of  good  sense  and 
humanity,  it  is  not  transcendent  poetry.  For  picta- 
resque  description  of  persons  it  is,  perhaps,  without  a 
parallel  in  English  poetry ;  yet  it  is  essentially  humor 
ous,  as  the  loftiest  genius  never  is.  Humor,  however 
broad  and  genial,  takes  a  narrower  view  than  enthusi 
asm.  To  his  own  finer  vein  he  added  all  the  common 
wit  and  wisdom  of  his  time,  and  everywhere  in  his  works 
his  remarkable  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  nice  per 
ception  of  character,  his  rare  common  sense  and  prover 
bial  wisdom,  are  apparent.  His  genius  does  not  soar 
like  Milton's,  but  is  genial  and  familiar.  It  shows  great 
tenderness  and  delicacy,  but  not  the  heroic  sentiment. 
It  is  only  a  greater  portion  of  humanity  with  all  its 
weakness.  He  is  not  heroic,  as  Raleigh,  nor  pious,  as 
Herbert,  nor  philosophical,  as  Shakespeare,  but  he  is  the 
child  of  the  English  muse,  that  child  which  is  the  father 
of  the  man.  The  charm  of  his  poetry  consists  often 
only  in  an  exceeding  naturalness,  perfect  sincerity,  with 
the  behavior  of  a  child  rather  than  of  a  man. 

Gentleness  and  delicacy  of  character  are  everywhere 
apparent  in  his  verse.  The  simplest  and  humblest 
words  come  readily  to  his  lips.  No  one  can  read  the 
Prioress's  tale,  understanding  the  spirit  in  which  it  was 
written,  and  in  which  the  child  sings  0  alma  redemptorit 
17* 


394  A    WEEK. 

mater,  01  the  account  of  the  departure  of  Constance  with 
her  child  upon  the  sea,  in  the  Man  of  Lawe's  tale,  with 
out  feeling  the  native  innocence  and  refinement  of  the 
author.  Nor  can  we  be  mistaken  respecting  the  essen 
tial  purity  of  his  character,  disregarding  the  apology  of 
the  manners  of  the  age.  A  simple  pathos  and  feminine 
gentleness,  which  Wordsworth  only  occasionally  ap 
proaches,  but  does  not  equal,  are  peculiar  to  him.  We 
are  tempted  to  say  that  his  genius  was  feminine,  not 
masculine.  It  was  such  a  feminineness,  however,  as  is 
rarest  to  find  in  woman,  though  not  the  appreciation  of 
it ;  perhaps  it  is  not  to  be  found  at  all  in  woman,  but  is 
only  the  feminine  in  man. 

Such  pure  and  genuine  and  childlike  love  of  Nature 
is  hardly  to  be  found  in  any  poet. 

Chaucer's  remarkably  trustful  and  affectionate  charac 
ter  appears  in  his  familiar,  yet  innocent  and  reverent, 
manner  of  speaking  of  his  God.  He  comes  into  his 
thought  without  any  false  reverence,  and  with  no  more 
parade  than  the  zephyr  to  his  ear.  If  Nature  is  our 
mother,  then  God  is  our  father.  There  is  less  love 
and  simple,  practical  trust  in  Shakespeare  and  Milton. 
How  rarely  in  our  English  tongue  do  we  find  expressed 
any  affection  for  God.  Certainly,  there  is  no  sentiment 
«o  rare  as  the  love  of  God.  Herbert  almost  alone  ex 
presses  it,  "  Ah,  my  dear  God  !  "  Our  poet  uses  similar 
words  with  propriety ;  and  whenever  he  sees  a  beautiful 
person,  or  other  object,  prides  himself  on  the  "  maistry ' 
of  his  God.  He  even  recommends  Dido  to  Ire  hw 
bride,  — 

'  if  that  Gdd  that  heaven  and  yearth  made, 
Would  have  a  love  for  beauty  and  poodnesse, 
And  womanhede,  trouth,  and  semeliness." 


FK1DAY.  395 

But  in  justification  of  our  praisey  we  must  refer  to  his 
works  themselves ;  to  the  Prologue  to  the  Canterbury 
Tales,  the  account  of  Gentilesse,  the  Flo-wer  and  the 
Leaf,  the  stories  of  Griselda,  Virginia,  Ariadne,  and 
Blanche  the  Dutchesse,  and  much  more  of  less  distin 
guished  merit.  There  are  many  poets  of  more  taste, 
and  better  manners,  who  knew  how  to  leave  out  their 
dulness ;  but  such  negative  genius  cannot  detain  us 
long ;  we  shall  return  to  Chaucer  still  with  love.  Some 
natures,  which  are  really  rude  and  ill-developed,  have 
yet  a  higher  standard  of  perfection  than  others  which 
are  refined  and  well  balanced.  Even  the  clown  has 
taste,  whose  dictates,  though  he  disregards  them,  are 
higher  and  purer  than  those  which  the  artist  obeys.  If 
we  have  to  wander  through  many  dull  and  prosaic 
passages  in  Chaucer,  we  have  at  least  the  satisfaction  of 
knowing  that  it  is  not  an  artificial  dulness,  but  too  easily 
matched  by  many  passages  in  life.  We  confess  that  we 
feel  a  disposition  commonly  to  concentrate  sweets,  and 
accumulate  pleasures ;  but  the  poet  may  be  presumed 
always  to  speak  as  a  traveller,  who  leads  us  through  a 
varied  scenery,  from  one  eminence  to  another,  and 
it  is,  perhaps,  more  pleasing,  after  all,  to  meet  with  a 
fine  thought  in  its  natural  setting.  Surely  fate  has  en 
shrined  it  in  these  circumstances  for  some  end.  Nature 
strews  her  nuts  arid  flowers  broadcast,  and  never  col* 
lects  them  into  heaps.  This  was  the  soil  it  grew  in,  and 
this  the  hour  it  bloomed  in ;  if  sun,  wind,  and  rain  came 
here  to  cherish  and  expand  the  flower,  shall  not  we 
pome  here  to  pluck  it? 

A  true  poem  is  distinguished  not  so  much  by  a  felici 
tous  expression,  or  any  thought  it  suggests,  as  by  the  at- 


3%  A    WEEK. 

oiosphere  which  surrounds  it.  Most  have  beaut/  of 
outliae  merely,  and  are  striking  as  the  form  and  bearing 
of  a  stranger ;  but  true  verses  come  toward  us  indis 
tinctly,  as  the  very  breath  of  all  friendliness,  and  envel 
op  us  in  their  spirit  and  fragrance.  Much  of  our  poetry 
has  the  very  best  manners,  but  no  character.  It  is  only 
an  unusual  precision  and  elasticity  of  speech,  as  if  its 
author  had  taken,  not  an  intoxicating  draught,  but  an 
electuary.  It  has  the  distinct  outline  of  sculpture,  and 
chronicles  an  early  hour.  Under  the  influence  of  pas 
sion  all  men  speak  thus  distinctly,  but  wrath  is  not  al 
ways  divine. 

There  are  two  classes  of  men  called  poets.  The  one 
cultivates  life,  the  other  art,  —  one  seeks  food  for  nutri 
ment,  the  other  for  flavor;  one  satisfies  hunger,  the 
other  gratifies  the  palate.  There  are  two  kinds  of  writ 
ing,  both  great  and  rare ;  one  that  of  genius,  or  the  in 
spired,  the  other  of  intellect  and  taste,  in  the  intervals 
of  inspiration.  The  former  is  above  criticism,  always 
correct,  giving  the  law  to  criticism.  It  vibrates  and 
pulsates  with  life  forever.  It  is  sacred,  and  to  be  read 
with  reverence,  as  the  works  of  nature  are  studied. 
There  are  few  instances  of  a  sustained  style  of  this 
kind ;  perhaps  every  man  has  spoken  words,  but  the 
speaker  is  then  careless  of  the  record.  Such  a  style  re 
moves  us  out  of  personal  relations  with  its  author ;  wf> 
do  not  take  his  words  on  our  lips,  but  his  sense  into 
our  hearts.  It  is  the  stream  of  inspiration,  which  bub- 
oles  out,  now  here,  now  there,  now  in  this  man,  now  in 
that.  It  matters  not  through  what  ice-crystals  it  is  seen, 
now  a  fountain,  now  the  ocean  stream  running  under 
ground.  It  is  in  Shakespeare,  Alpheus,  in  Burns,  Are 
thuse ;  but  ever  the  same.  The  other  is  self-possessed 


FRIDAY.  397 

und  wise.  It  is  reverent  of  genius,  and  greedy  of  inspi 
ration.  It  is  conscious  in  the  highest  and  the  least  de 
gree.  It  consists  with  the  most  perfect  command  of 
the  faculties.  It  dwells  in  a  repose  as  of  the  desert,  and 
objects  are  as  distinct  in  it  as  oases  or  palms  in  the  ho 
rizon  of  sand.  The  train  of  thought  moves  with  sub 
dued  and  measured  step,  like  a  caravan.  But  the  pen 
is  only  an  instrument  in  its  hand,  and  not  instinct  with 
life,  like  a  longer  arm.  It  leaves  a  thin  varnish  or  glaze 
over  all  its  work.  The  works  of  Goethe  furnish  re 
markable  instances  of  the  latter. 

There  is  no  just  and  serene  criticism  as  yet.  Noth 
ing  is  considered  simply  as  it  lies  in  the  lap  of  eternal 
beauty,  but  our  thoughts,  as  well  as  our  bodies,  must  be 
dressed  after  the  latest  fashions.  Our  taste  is  too  deli 
cate  and  particular.  It  says  nay  to  the  poet's  work,  but 
never  yea  to  his  hope.  It  invites  him  to  adorn  his  de 
formities,  and  not  to  cast  them  off  by  expansion,  as  the 
tree  its  bark.  We  are  a  people  who  live  in  a  bright 
light,  in  houses  of  pearl  and  porcelain,  and  drink  only 
light  wines,  whose  teeth  are  easily  set  on  edge  by  the 
least  natural  sour.  If  we  had  been  consulted,  the  back 
bone  of  the  earth  would  have  been  made,  not  of  granite, 
but  of  Bristol  spar.  A  modern  author  would  have  died 
.in  infancy  in  a  ruder  age.  But  the  poet  is  something 
more  than  a  scald,  "a  smoother  and  polisher  of  lan 
guage  " ;  he  is  a  Cincinnatus  in  literature,  and  occupies 
ao  west  end  of  the  world.  Like  the  sun,  he  will  indif 
ferently  select  his  rhymes,  and  with  a  liberal  taste 
weave  into  his  verse  the  planet  and  the  stubble. 

In  these  old  books  the  stucco  has  long  since  crumbled 
away,  and  we  read  what  was  sculptured  in  the  granite. 
They  are  rude  and  massive  in  their  proportions,  rather 


398  A    WEEK. 

than  smooth  and  delicate  in  their  finish.  The  workers 
in  stone  polish  only  their  chimney  ornaments,  but  their 
pyramids  are  roughly  done.  There  is  a  soberness  in  a 
rough  aspect,  as  of  unhewn  granite,  which  addresses  a 
depth  in  us,  but  a  polished  surface  hits  only  the  ball  of 
the  eye.  The  true  finish  is  the  work  of  time,  and  the 
use  to  which  a  thing  is  put.  The  elements  are  still  pol 
ishing  the  pyramids.  Art  may  varnish  and  gild,  but  it 
can  do  no  more.  A  work  of  genius  is  rough-hewn  from 
the  first,  because  it  anticipates  the  lapse  of  time,  and  has 
an  ingrained  polish,  which  still  appears  when  fragments 
are  broken  off,  an  essential  quality  of  its  substance.  Ita 
beauty  is  at  the  same  time  its  strength,  and  it  breaks 
with  a  lustre. 

The  great  poem  must  have  the  stamp  of  greatness  as 
well  as  its  essence.  The  reader  easily  goes  within  the 
shallowest  contemporary  poetry,  and  informs  it  with  all 
the  life  and  promise  of  the  day,  as  the  pilgrim  goes 
within  the  temple,  and  hears  the  faintest  strains  of  the 
worshippers ;  but  it  will  have  to  speak  to  posterity,  trav 
ersing  these  deserts,  through  the  ruins  of  its  outmost 
walls,  by  the  grandeur  and  beauty  of  its  proportions. 


But  here  on  the  stream  of  the  Concord,  where  we 
have  all  the  while  been  bodily,  Nature,  who  is  superior 
•Q  all  styles  and  ages,  is  now,  with  pensive  face,  com 
posing  her  poem  Autumn,  with  which  no  work  of  man 
will  bear  to  be  compared. 

In  summer  we  live  out  of  doors,  and  have  only  im 
pulses  and  feelings,  which  are  all  for  action,  and  musf 
wait  commonly  for  the  stillness  and  longer  nights  of 


FRIDAY.  399 

autumn  and  winter  before  any  thought  will  subside ;  we 
are  sensible  that  behind  the  rustling  leaves,  and  the 
stacks  of  grain,  and  the  bare  clusters  of  the  grape,  there 
is  the  field  of  a  wholly  new  life,  which  no  man  has 
lived;  that  even  this  earth  was  made  for  more  myste 
rious  and  nobler  inhabitants  than  men  and  women.  In 
the  hues  of  October  sunsets,  we  see  the  portals  to  other 
mansions  than  those  which  we  occupy,  not  far  off  geo 
graphically,  — 

u  There  is  a  place  beyond  that  flaming  hill, 

From  whence  the  stars  their  thin  appearance  shed, 
A  place  beyond  all  place,  where  never  ill, 
Nor  impure  thought  was  ever  harbored." 

Sometimes  a  mortal  feels  in  himself  Nature,  not  his  Fa 
ther  but  his  Mother  slirs  within  him,  and  he  becomes 
immortal  with  her  immortality.  From  time  to  time  she 
alaims  kindredship  with  us,  and  some  globule  from  her 
veins  steals  up  into  our  own. 

I  am  the  autumnal  sun, 
With  autumn  gales  my  race  is  run  ; 
When  will  the  hazel  put  forth  its  flowers, 
Or  the  grape  ripen  under  my  bowers  ? 
When  will  the  harvest  or  the  hunter's  moon, 
Turn  my  midnight  into  mid-noon  ? 

I  am  all  sere  and  yellow, 

And  to  my  core  mellow. 
The  mast  is  dropping  within  my  woods, 
The  winter  is  lurking  within  my  moods, 
And  the  rustling  of  the  withered  leaf 
Is  the  constant  music  of  my  grief. 

To  an  unskilful  rhymer  the  Muse  thus  spoke  in  prose 

The  moon  no  longer  reflects  the  day,  but  rises  to  her 
Absolute  rule,  and  the  husbandman  and  hunter  acknowt 


•100  A    WEEK. 

edge  her  for  their  mistress.  Asters  and  golden-rods  reign 
along  the  way,  and  the  life-everlasting  withers  not.  The 
fields  arc  reaped  and  shorn  of  their  pride,  but  an  inward 
verdure  still  crowns  them.  The  thistle  scatters  its  down 
on  the  pool,  and  yellow  leaves  clothe  the  vine,  and  naught 
disturbs  the  serious  life  of  men.  But  behind  the  sheaves, 
*nd  under  the  sod,  there  lurks  a  ripe  fruit,  which  the 
reapers  have  not  gathered,  the  true  harvest  of  the  year, 
which  it  bears  forever,  annually  watering  and  maturing 
it,  and  man  never  severs  the  stalk  which  bears  this  pal 
atable  fruit. 

Men  nowhere,  east  or  west,  live  yet  a  natural  life, 
round  which  the  vine  clings,  and  which  the  elm  willingly 
shadows.  Man  would  desecrate  it  by  his  touch,  and  so 
the  beauty  of  the  world  remains  veiled  to  him.  He  needs 
not  only  to  be  spiritualized,  but  naturalized,  on  the  soil 
of  earth.  Who  shall  conceive  what  kind  of  roof  the 
heavens  might  extend  over  him,  what  seasons  minister  to 
nim,  and  what  employment  dignify  his  life !  Only  the 
convalescent  raise  the  veil  of  nature.  An  immortality 
in  his  life  would  confer  immortality  on  his  abode.  The 
winds  should  be  his  breath,  the  seasons  his  moods,  and 
ne  should  impart  of  his  serenity  to  Nature  herself.  But 
such  as  we  know  him  he  is  ephemeral  like  the  scenery 
which  surrounds  him,  and  does  not  aspire  to  an  enduring 
existence.  When  we  come  down  into  the  distant  village, 
visible  from  the  mountain-top,  the  nobler  inhabitants 
with  whom  we  peopled  it  have  departed,  and  left  only 
ermin  in  its  desolate  streets.  It  is  the  imagination  of 
poets  which  puts  those  brave  speeches  into  the  mouths 
of  their  heroes.  They  may  feign  that  Cato's  last  word* 
irero 


401 

"  The  earth,  the  air,  and  seas  I  know,  and  all 
The  joys  and  horrors  of  their  peace  and  wars  ; 
And  now  will  view  the  Gods'  state  and  the  stars," 

but  such  are  not  the  thoughts  nor  the  destiny  of  common 
men.  What  is  this  heaven  which  they  expect,  if  it  is  no 
better  than  they  expect  ?  Are  they  prepared  for  a  better 
than  they  can  now  imagine  ?  Where  is  the  heaven  of  him 
who  dies  on  a  stage,  in  a  theatre  ?  Here  or  nowhere  is 
our  heaven. 

"  Although  we  see  celestial  bodies  move 
Above  the  earth,  the  earth  we  till  and  love." 

We  can  conceive  of  nothing  more  fair  than  something 
which  we  have  experienced.  "The  remembrance  of 
youth  is  a  sigh."  We  linger  in  manhood  to  tell  the  dreams 
of  our  childhood,  and  they  are  half  forgotten  ere  we  have 
learned  the  language.  We  have  need  to  be  earth-born 
as  well  as  heaven-born,  yrjyw'is,  as  was  said  of  the  Titans 
of  old,  or  in  a  better  sense  than  they.  There  have  been 
heroes  for  whom  this  world  seemed  expressly  prepared, 
as  if  creation  had  at  last  succeeded ;  whose  daily  life  was 
the  stuff  of  which  our  dreams  are  made,  and  whose  pres 
ence  enhanced  the  beauty  and  ampleness  of  Nature  her 
self.  Where  they  walked, 

"  Largior  hie  canipos  aether  et  lumine  vestit 
Purpureo  :  Solemque  suum,  sua  sidera  norunt." 

"  Here  a  more  copious  air  invests  the  fields,  and  clothes 
with  purple  light ;  and  they  know  their  own  sun  and  their 
own  stars."  We  love  to  hear  some  men  speak,  though 
we  hear  not  what  they  say ;  the  V3ry  air  they  breathe  is 
rich  and  perfumed,  and  the  sound  of  their  voices  falls  on 
the  ear  like  the  rustling  of  leaves  or  the  crackling  of  the 


402  A    WKEK. 

fire.  They  stand  many  deep.  They  have  the  heavens 
for  their  abettors,  as  those  who  have  never  stood  from 
under  them,  and  they  look  at  the  stars  with  an  answering 
ray.  Their  eyes  are  like  glow-worms,  and  their  motions 
graceful  and  flowing,  as  if  a  place  were  already  found  for 
them,  like  rivers  flowing  through  valleys.  The  distinc 
tions  of  morality,  of  right  and  wrong,  sense  and  nonsense, 
are  petty,  and  have  lost  their  significance,  beside  these 
pure  primeval  natures.  When  I  consider  the  clouda 
stretched  in  stupendous  masses  across  the  sky,  frowning 
with  darkness  or  glowing  with  downy  light,  or  gilded  with 
the  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  like  the  battlements  of  a  city 
in  the  heavens,  their  grandeur  appears  thrown  away  OB 
the  meanness  of  my  employment ;  the  drapery  is  alto 
gether  too  rich  for  such  poor  acting.  I  am  hardly  worthy 
to  be  a  suburban  dweller  outside  those  walls 

"  Unless  above  himself  he  can 
Erect  himself,  how  poor  a  thing  is  man  I " 

With  our  music  we  would  fain  challenge  transiently 
another  and  finer  sort  of  intercourse  than  our  daily  toil 
permits.  The  strains  come  back  to  us  amended  in  the 
echo,  as  when  a  friend  reads  our  verse.  Why  have  they 
BO  painted  the  fruits,  and  freighted  them  with  such  fra 
grance  as  to  satisfy  a  more  than  animal  appetite  ? 

"  I  asked  the  schoolman,  his  advice  was  free, 
But  scored  me  out  too  intricate  a  way." 

These  things  imply,  perchance,  that  we  live  on  the  verge 
c*f  another  and  purer  realm,  from  which  these  odors  and 
sounds  are  wafted  over  to  us.  The  borders  of  our  plot 
Ere  set  with  flowers,  whose  seeds  were  blown  from  more 
Elysian  fields  r.djacent.  They  are  the  pot-herbs  of  th« 


FRIDAY.  403 

gods.  Some  fairer  fruits  and  sweeter  fragrances  wafted 
over  to  us,  betray  another  realm's  vicinity.  There,  too, 
does  Echo  dwell,  and  there  is  the  abutment  of  the  rain 
bow's  arch. 

A  finer  race  and  finer  fed 

Feast  and  revel  o'er  our  head, 

And  we  titmen  are  only  able 

To  catch  the  fragments  from  their  table. 

Theirs  is  the  fragrance  of  the  fruits, 

While  we  consume  the  pulp  and  roots. 

What  are  the  moments  that  we  stand 

Astonished  on  the  Olympian  land ! 

We  need  pray  for  no  higher  heaven  than  the  pure 
senses  can  furnish,  a  purely  sensuous  life.  Our  present 
senses  are  but  the  rudiments  of  what  they  are  destined 
to  become.  We  are  comparatively  deaf  and  dumb  and 
blind,  and  without  smell  or  taste  or  feeling.  Every  gen 
eration  makes  the  discovery,  that  its  divine  vigor  has 
been  dissipated,  and  each  sense  and  faculty  misapplied 
and  debauched.  The  ears  were  made,  not  for  such  triv 
ial  uses  as  men  are  wont  to  suppose,  but  to  hear  celestial 
sounds.  The  eyes  were  not  made  for  such  grovelling 
uses  as  they  are  now  put  to  and  worn  out  by,  but  to  be 
hold  beauty  now  invisible.  May  we  not  see  God  ?  Are 
we  to  be  put  off  and  amused  in  this  life,  as  it  were 
with  a  mere  allegory  ?  Is  not  Nature,  rightly  read,  that 
of  which  she  is  commonly  taken  to  be  the  symbol  mere 
ly  ?  When  the  common  man  looks  into  the  sky,  which 
he  has  not  so  much  profaned,  he  thinks  it  less  gross  than 
the  earth,  and  with  reverence  speaks  of  "  the  Heavens," 
but  the  seer  will  in  the  same  sense  speak  of"  the  Earths," 
and  his  Father  who  is  in  them.  "  Did  not  he  that  made 
that  which  is  within,  make  that  which  is  without  also  ?  r 
What  is  it,  then,  to  educate  but  to  develop  these  divine 


404  A.    WEEK. 

germs  called  the  senses?  for  individuals  and  states  to 
deal  magnanimously  with  the  rising  generation,  leading 
it  not  into  temptation,  — not  teach  the  eye  to  squint,  nor 
attune  the  ear  to  profanity.  But  where  is  the  instructed 
teacher?  Where  are  the  normal  schools  ? 

A  Hindoo  sage  said,  "  As  a  dancer,  having  exhibited 
herself  to  the  spectator,  desists  from  the  dance,  so  does 
Nature  desist,  having  manifested  herself  to  soul  — . 
Nothing,  in  my  opinion,  is  more  gentle  than  Nature; 
once  aware  of  having  been  seen,  she  does  not  again  ex 
pose  herself  to  the  gaze  of  soul." 

It  is  easier  to  discover  another  such  a  new  world  as 
Columbus  did,  than  to  go  within  one  fold  of  this  which 
we  appear  to  know  so  well ;  the  land  is  lost  sight  of,  the 
compass  varies,  and  mankind  mutiny ;  and  still  history 
accumulates  like  rubbish  before  the  portals  of  nature. 
Rut  there  is  only  necessary  a  moment's  sanity  and  sound 
senses,  to  teach  us  that  there  is  a  nature  behind  the  ordi 
nary,  in  which  we  have  only  some  vague  pre-emption 
right  and  western  reserve  as  yet.  We  live  on  the  out 
skirts  of  that  region.  Carved  wood,  and  floating  boughs, 
and  sunset  skies,  are  all  that  we  know  of  it.  We  are  not 
to  be  imposed  on  by  the  longest  spell  of  weather.  Let 
us  not,  my  friends,  be  wheedled  and  cheated  into  good 
behavior  to  earn  the  salt  of  our  eternal  porridge,  who 
ever  they  are  that  attempt  it.  Let  us  wait  a  little,  and 
not  purchase  any  clearing  here,  trusting  that  richer  bot 
toms  will  soon  be  put  up.  It  is  but  thin  soil  where  we 
stand :  I  have  felt  my  roots  in  a  richer  ere  this.  I  havf 
seen  a  bunch  of  violets  in  a  glass  vase,  tied  loosely  witfr 
a  straw,  which  reminded  me  of  myself. 


FKIDA1. 

I  am  a  parcel  of  vain  strivings  tied 

By  a  chance  bond  together, 
Dangling  this  way  and  that,  their  linki 
Were  made  so  loose  and  wide, 

Methinks, 
For  milder  weather. 

A  bunch  of  violets  without  their  roots, 

And  sorrel  intermixed, 
Encircled  by  a  wisp  of  straw 

Once  coiled  abont  their  shoots, 

The  law 
By  which  I  'm  fixed. 

A  nosegay  which  Time  clutched  from  out 

Those  fair  Elysian  fields, 
With  weeds  and  broken  stems,  in  haste, 
Doth  make  the  rabble  rout 
That  waste 
11  The  day  he  yields. 

And  here  I  bloom  for  a  short  hour  unseen, 

Drinking  my  juices  up, 
With  no  root  in  the  land 

To  keep  my  branches  green, 

But  stand 
In  a  bare  cup. 

Some  tender  buds  were  left  upon  my  stem 

In  mimicry  of  life, 
But  ah !  the  children  will  not  know, 
Till  time  has  withered  them, 

The  woe 
With  which  they  're  rife. 

But  now  I  see  I  was  not  plucked  for  naught, 

And  after  in  life's  vase 
Of  glass  set  while  I  might  survive, 
But  by  a  kind  hand  brought 

Alive 
To  a  strange  place. 

That  stock  thus  thinned  will  scon  redeem  its  loan, 
And  by  another  year, 


406  A    WEEK. 

Such  as  God  knows,  with  freer  air, 
More  fruita  and  fairer  flowers 

Will  bear, 
While  I  droop  here. 

This  world  has  many  rings,  like  Saturn,  and  we  live 
now  on  the  outmost  of  them  all.  None  can  say  deliber 
ately  that  he  inhabits  the  same  sphere,  or  is  contempora 
ry  with,  the  flower  which  his  hands  have  plucked,  and 
though  his  feet  may  seem  to  crush  it,  inconceivable 
spaces  and  ages  separate  them,  and  perchance  there  is 
no  danger  that  he  will  hurt  it.  What  do  the  botanists 
know  ?  Our  lives  should  go  between  the  lichen  and  the 
bark.  The  eye  may  see  for  the  hand,  but  not  for  the 
mind.  We  are  still  being  born,  and  have  as  yet  but  a 
dim  vision  of  sea  and  land,  sun,  moon  and  stars,  and 
shall  not  see  clearly  till  after  nine  days  at  least.  That 
is  a  pathetic  inquiry  among  travellers  and  geographers 
after  the  site  of  ancient  Troy.  It  is  not  near  where  they 
think  it  is.  When  a  thing  is  decayed  and  gone,  how  in 
distinct  must  be  the  place  it  occupied! 

The  anecdotes  of  modern  astronomy  affect  me  in  the 
same  way  as  do  those  faint  revelations  of  the  Real 
which  are  vouchsafed  to  men  from  time  to  time,  or 
rather  from  eternity  to  eternity.  When  I  remember  the 
history  of  that  faint  light  in  our  firmament,  which  we  call 
Venus,  which  ancient  men  regarded,  and  which  most 
modern  men  still  regard,  as  a  bright  spark  attached  to  a 
hollow  sphere  revolving  about  our  earth,  but  which  we 
have  discovered  to  be  another  world,  in  itself,  —  how 
Copernicus,  reasoning  long  and  patiently  about  the  mat 
ter,  predicted  confidently  concerning  it,  before  yet  tha 
telescope  had  been  invented,  that  if  ever  men  came  to 
see  it  more  clearly  than  they  did  then,  thev  would  dis- 


FRIDAY.  407 

cover  that  it  had  phases  like  our  moon,  and  that  within 
a  century  after  his  death  the  telescope  was  invented,  and 
that  prediction  verified,  by  Galileo,  —  I  am  not  without 
hope  that  we  may,  even  here  and  now  obtain  some  accu 
rate  information  concerning  that  OTHER  WORLD  which  the 
instinct  of  mankind  has  so  long  predicted.  Indeed,  all 
that  we  call  science,  as  well  as  all  that  we  call  poetry,  is 
a  particle  of  such  information,  accurate  as  far  as  it  goes, 
though  it  be  but  to  the  confines  of  the  iruth.  If  we  can 
reason  so  accurately,  and  with  such  wonderful  confirma 
tion  of  our  reasoning,  respecting  so-called  material  ob 
jects  and  events  infinitely  removed  beyond  the  range  of 
our  natural  vision,  so  that  the  mind  hesitates  to  trust  its 
calculations  even  when  they  are  confirmed  by  observa 
tion,  why  may  not  our  speculations  penetrate  as  far  into 
the  immaterial  starry  system,  of  which  the  former  is  but 
the  outward  and  visible  type  ?  Surely,  we  are  provided 
with  senses  as  well  fitted  to  penetrate  the  spaces  of  the 
real,  the  substantial,  the  eternal,  as  these  outward  are  to 
penetrate  the  material  universe.  Veias,  Menu,  Zoroas 
ter,  Socrates,  Christ,  Shakespeare,  Swedenborg,  —  these 
are  some  of  our  astronomers. 

There  are  perturbations  in  our  orbits  produced  by  the 
influence  of  outlying  spheres,  and  no  astronomer  has 
ever  yet  calculated  the  elements  of  that  undiscovered 
world  which  produces  them.  I  perceive  in  the  common 
train  of  my  thoughts  a  natural  and  uninterrupted  se 
quence,  each  implying  the  next,  or,  if  interruption  oc 
curs,  it  is  occasioned  by  a  new  object  being  presented  to 
my  senses.  But  a  steep,  and  sudden,  and  by  these  means 
unaccountable  transition,  is  that  from  a  comparatively 
narrow  and  partial,  what  is  called  common  sense  view 
of  things,  to  an  infinitely  expanded  and  liberating  one 


408  A    WEEK. 

from  seeing  things  as  men  describe  them,  to  seeing  them 
as  men  cannot  describe  them.  This  implies  a  sense 
which  is  not  common,  but  rare  in  the  wisest  man's  expe 
rience  ;  which  is  sensible  or  sentient  of  more  than  com 
mon. 

In  what  enclosures  does  the  astronomer  loiter !  His 
skies  are  shoal,  and  imagination,  like  a  thirsty  traveller, 
pants  to  be  through  their  desert.  The  roving  mind 
impatiently  bursts  the  fetters  of  astronomical  orbits,  like 
cobwebs  in  a  corner  of  its  universe,  and  launches  itself 
to  where  distance  fails  to  follow,  and  law,  such  as  science 
has  discovered,  grows  weak  and  weary.  The  mind 
knows  a  distance  and  a  space  of  which  all  those  sums 
combined  do  not  make  a  unit  of  measure,  —  the  interval 
between  that  which  appears,  and  that  which  is.  I  know 
that  there  are  many  stars,  I  know  that  they  are  far 
enough  off,  bright  enough,  steady  enough  in  their  orbits, 
—  but  what  are  they  all  worth  ?  They  are  more  waste 
land  in  the  West,  —  star  territory,  —  to  be  made  slave 
States,  perchance,  if  we  colonize  them.  I  have  interest 
but  for  six  feet  of  star,  and  that  interest  is  transient. 
Then  farewell  to  all  ye  bodies,  such  as  I  have  known 
ye. 

Every  man,  if  he  is  wise,  will  stand  on  such  bottom 
as  will  sustain  him,  and  if  one  gravitates  downward 
more  strongly  than  another,  he  will  not  venture  on 
those  meads  where  the  latter  walks  securely,  but 
rather  leave  the  cranberries  which  grow  there  un- 
raked  by  himself.  Perchance,  some  spring  a  higher 
freshet  will  float  them  within  his  reach,  though  they 
may  be  watery  and  frost-bitten  by  that  time.  Such 
shrivelled  berries  I  have  seen  in  many  a  poor  man's 


FRIDAY.  409 

garret,  ay,  in  many  a  church-bin  and  state-coffer,  and 
with  a  little  water  and  heat  they  swell  again  to  their 
original  size  and  fairness,  and  added  sugar  enough,  stead 
mankind  for  sauce  to  this  world's  dish. 

What  is  called  common  sense  is  excellent  in  its  de 
partment,  and  as  invaluable  as  the  virtue  of  conformity 
in  the  army  and  navy,  —  for  there  must  be  subordina 
tion, —  but  uncommon  sense,  that  sense  which  is  com 
mon  only  to  the  wisest,  is  as  much  more  excellent  as  it 
is  more  rare.  Some  aspire  to  excellence  in  the  subordi 
nate  department,  and  may  God  speed  them.  What 
Fuller  says  of  masters  of  colleges  is  universally  applica 
ble,  that  "  a  little  alloy  of  dulness  in  a  master  of  a  col 
lege  makes  him  fitter  to  manage  secular  affairs." 

"  He  that  wants  faith,  and  apprehends  a  grief 
Because  he  wants  it,  hath  a  true  belief; 
And  he  that  grieves  because  his  grief  's  so  small, 
Has  a  true  grief,  and  the  best  Faith  of  all." 

Or  be  encouraged  by  this  other  poet's  strain,  — 

"  By  them  went  Fido  marshal  of  the  field: 

Weak  was  his  mother  when  she  gave  him  day; 
And  he  at  first  a  sick  and  weakly  child, 
As  e'er  with  tears  welcomed  the  sunny  ray; 
Yet  when  more  years  afford  more  growth  and  might, 
A  champion  stout  he  was,  and  puissant  knight, 
As  ever  came  in  field,  or  shone  in  armor  bright. 

"  Mountains  he  flings  in  seas  with  mighty  hand; 

Stops  and  turns  back  the  sun's  impetuous  course, 
Nature  breaks  Nature's  laws  at  his  command ; 
No  force  of  Hell  or  Heaven  withstands  his  force; 
Events  to  come  yet  many  ages  nence, 
He  present  makes,  by  wondrous  prescience; 
Proving  the  senses  blind  by  being  blind  to  sense." 

*  Yesterday,  at  (lawn,"  says  Hafiz,  "  God  delivered  me 
18 


410  A    WEKK. 

from  all  worldly  affliction;  and   amidst   the   gloom  of 
night  presented  me  with  the  water  of  immortality." 

In  the  life  of  Sadi  by  Dowlat  Shah  occurs  this  sen 
tence:  "The  eagle  of  the  immaterial  soul  of  Shaikh 
Sadi  shook  from  his  plumage  the  dust  of  his  body." 

Thus  thoughtfully  we  were  rowing  homeward  to  find 
Some  autumnal  work  to  do,  and  help  on  the  revolution 
of  the  seasons.  Perhaps  Nature  would  condescend  to 
make  use  of  us  even  without  our  knowledge,  as  when 
we  help  to  scatter  her  seeds  in  our  walks,  and  carry 
burrs  and  cockles  on  our  clothes  from  field  to  field. 

All  things  are  current  fonnd 
On  earthly  ground, 
Spirits  and  elements 
Have  their  descents. 

Night  and  day,  year  on  year, 
High  and  low,  far  and  near, 
These  are  our  own  aspects, 
These  are  our  own  regrets. 

Ye  gods  of  the  shore, 
Who  abide  evermore, 
I  see  your  far  headland, 
Stretching  on  either  hand ; 

I  hear  the  sweet  evening  sounds 
From  your  undecaying  grounds; 
Cheat  me  no  more  with  time, 
Take  me  to  your  clime. 

As  it  grew  later  in  the  afternoon,  and  we  rowed  leis 
urely  up  the  gentle  stream,  shut  in  between  fragran 
and  blooming  banks,  where  we  had  first  pitched  our 
tent,  and  drew  nearer  to  the  fields  where  our  lives  had 


FRIDAY.  411 

passed,  we  seemed  to  detect  the  hues  of  our  native  sky 
in  the  southwest  horizon.  The  sun  was  just  setting 
behind  the  edge  of  a  wooded  hill,  so  rich  a  sunset  as 
would  never  have  ended  but  for  some  reason  unknown 
to  men,  and  to  be  marked  with  brighter  colors  than  or 
dinary  in  the  scroll  of  time.  Though  the  shadows  of 
the  hills  were  beginning  to  steal  over  the  stream,  the 
whole  river  valley  undulated  with  mild  light,  purer  and 
more  memorable  than  the  noon.  For  so  day  bids  fare 
well  even  to  solitary  vales  uninhabited  by  man.  Two 
herons,  Ardea  herodias,  with  their  long  and  slender 
limbs  relieved  against  the  sky,  were  seen  travelling  high 
over  our  heads,  —  their  lofty  and  silent  flight,  as  they 
were  wending  their  way  at  evening,  surely  not  to  alight 
in  any  marsh  on  the  earth's  surface,  but,  perchance,  on 
the  other  side  of  our  atmosphere,  a  symbol  for  the  ages 
to  study,  whether  impressed  upon  the  sky,  or  sculptured 
amid  the  hieroglyphics  of  Egypt.  Bound  to  some  north 
ern  meadow,  they  held  on  their  stately,  stationary  flight, 
like  the  storks  in  the  picture,  and  disappeared  at  length 
behind  the  clouds.  Dense  flocks  of  blackbirds  were 
winging  their  way  along  the  river's  course,  as  if  on  a 
short  evening  pilgrimage  to  some  shrine  of  theirs,  or  to 
celebrate  so  fair  a  sunset. 

"  Therefore,  as  doth  the  pilgrim,  whom  the  night 

Hastes  darkly  to  imprison  on  his  way, 
Think  on  thy  home,  my  soul,  and  think  aright 
Of  what 's  yet  left  thee  of  life's  wasting  day: 
Thy  sun  posts  westward,  passed  is  thy  morn, 
And  twice  it  is  not  given  thee  to  be  born." 

The  sun-setting  presumed  all  men  at  leisure,  and  in  a 
contemplative  mood ;  but  the  farmer's  boy  only  whistled 
the  more  thoughtfully  as  he  drove  his  cows  home  from 


412  A    WEKK. 

pasture,  and  the  team&ter  refrained  from  cracking  his 
whip,  and  guided  his  team  with  a  subdued  voice.  The 
last  vestiges  of  daylight  at  length  disappeared,  and  as 
we  rowed  silently  along  with  our  backs  toward  home 
through  the  darkness,  only  a  few  stars  being  visible,  we 
had  little  to  say,  but  sat  absorbed  in  thought,  or  in  silence 
listened  to  the  monotonous  sound  of  our  oars,  a  sort  of 
rudimental  music,  suitable  for  the  ear  of  Night  and  the 
acoustics  of  her  dimly  lighted  halls  ; 

"  PulssB  referunt  ad  sidera  valles," 

and  the  valleys  echoed  the  sound  to  the  stars. 

As  we  looked  up  in  silence  to  those  distant  lights,  we 
were  reminded  that  it  was  a  rare  imagination  which  first 
taught  that  the  stars  are  worlds,  and  had  conferred  a 
great  benefit  on  mankind.  It  is  recorded  in  the  Chroni 
cle  of  Bernaldez,  that  in  Columbus's  first  voyage  the 
natives  "  pointed  towards  the  heavens,  making  signs  that 
they  believed  that  there  was  all  power  and  holiness." 
We  have  reason  to  be  grateful  for  celestial  phenomena, 
for  they  chiefly  answer  to  the  ideal  in  man.  The  stars 
are  distant  and  unobtrusive,  but  bright  and  enduring  as 
our  fairest  and  most  memorable  experiences.  "  Let  the 
immortal  depth  of  your  soul  lead  you,  but  earnestly  ex 
tend  your  eyes  upwards." 

As  the  truest  society  approaches  always  nearer  to 
solitude,  so  the  most  excellent  speech  finally  falls  into 
Silence.  Silence  is  audible  to  all  men,  at  all  times,  and 
in  all  places.  She  is  when  we  hear  inwardly,  sound 
when  we  hear  outwardly.  Creation  has  not  displaced 
her,  but  is  her  visible  framework  and  foil.  All  sounds 
aro  her  servants,  and  purveyors,  proclaiming  not  onlj 


FRIDAY.  413 

that  their  mistress  is,  but  is  a  rare  mistress,  and  earnest 
ly  to  be  sought  after.  They  are  so  far  akin  to  Silence, 
that  they  are  but  bubbles  on  her  surface,  which  straight 
way  burst,  an  evidence  of  the  strength  and  prolificness 
of  the  under-current ;  a  faint  utterance  of  Silence,  and 
then  only  agreeable  to  our  auditory  nerves  when  they 
contrast  themselves  with  and  relieve  the  former.  In 
proportion  as  they  do  this,  and  are  heighteners  and  in- 
tensifiers  of  the  Silence,  they  are  harmony  and  purest 
melody. 

Silence  is  the  universal  refuge,  the  sequel  to  all  dull 
discourses  and  all  foolish  acts,  a  balm  to  our  every  cha 
grin,  as  welcome  after  satiety  as  after  disappointment ; 
that  background  which  the  painter  may  not  daub,  be  he 
master  or  bungler,  and  which,  however  awkward  a  fig 
ure  we  may  have  made  in  the  foreground,  remains  ever 
our  inviolable  asylum,  where  no  indignity  can  assail,  no 
personality  disturb  us. 

The  orator  puts  off  his  individuality,  and  is  then  most 
eloquent  when  most  silent.  He  listens  while  he  speaks, 
and  is  a  hearer  along  with  his  audience.  Who  has  not 
hearkened  to  Her  infinite  din  ?  She  is  Truth's  speaking- 
trumpet,  the  sole  oracle,  the  true  Delphi  and  Dodona, 
which  kings  and  courtiers  would  do  well  to  consult,  nor 
will  they  be  balked  by  an  ambiguous  answer.  For 
through  Her  all  revelations  have  been  made,  and  just 
in  proportion  as  men  have  consulted  her  oracle  within, 
they  have  obtained  a  clear  insight,  and  their  age  has 
been  marked  as  an  enlightened  one.  But  as  often  as 
they  have  gone  gadding  abroad  to  a  strange  Delphi  and 
her  mad  priestess,  their  age  has  been  dark  and  leaden. 
Such  were  garrulous  and  noisy  eras,  which  no  longer 
yield  any  sound,  but  the  Grecian  or  silent  and  melodious 


414  A    WEKK. 

era  is  ever  sounding  and  resounding  in  the  ears  of 
men. 

A  good  book  is  the  plectrum  with  which  our  else  si 
lent  lyres  are  struck.  We  not  unfrequently  refer  the 
interest  which  belongs  to  our  own  unwritten  sequel,  to 
the  written  and  comparatively  lifeless  body  of  the  work. 
Of  all  books  this  sequel  is  the  most  indispensable  part. 
It  should  be  the  author's  aim  to  say  once  and  emphati 
cally,  "  He  said,"  €^,  «.  This  is  the  most  the  book 
maker  can  attain  to.  If  he  make  his  volume  a  mole 
whereon  the  waves  of  Silence  may  break,  it  is  well. 

It  were  vain  for  me  to  endeavor  to  interrupt  the  Si 
lence.  She  cannot  be  done  into  English.  For  six 
thousand  years  men  have  translated  her  with  what  fidel 
ity  belonged  to  each,  and  still  she  is  little  better  than  a 
sealed  book.  A  man  may  run  on  confidently  for  a 
time,  thinking  he  has  her  under  his  thumb,  and  shall 
one  day  exhaust  her,  but  he  too  must  at  last  be  silent, 
and  men  remark  only  how  brave  a  beginning  he  made  ; 
for  when  he  at  length  dives  into  her,  so  vast  is  the  dis 
proportion  of  the  told  to  the  untold,  that  the  former  will 
Beem  but  the  bubble  on  the  surface  where  he  disap 
peared.  Nevertheless,  we  will  go  on,  like  those  Chinese 
cliff  swallows,  feathering  our  nests  with  the  froth,  which 
may  one  day  be  bread  of  life  to  such  as  dwell  by  the 
sea-shore. 

We  had  made  about  fifty  miles  this  day  with  sail  and 
Dar,  and  now,  far  in  the  evening,  our  boat  was  grating 
against  the  bulrushes  of  its  native  port,  and  its  keel  reo* 
ognized  the  Concord  mud,  where  some  semblance  of  ita 
outline  was  still  preserved  in  the  flattened  flags  which 
had  scarce  yet  erected  themselves  since  our  departure 


FRIDAY.  415 

and  we  leaped  gladly  on  shore,  drawing  it  up,  and  fas 
tening  it  to  the  wild  apple-tree,  whose  stem  still  bore 
the  mark  which  its  chain  had  worn  in  the  chafing  of  the 
spring  freshets. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

ENVIRONMENTAL  DESIGN 
LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


DEC  1  9  1973 


MAY 


RB  16-20 
(B3605s. 


LD  21A-50m-9,'67 
(H5067slO)476 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


